


Not Look Well In Black

by Drac



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Ableism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Sex, F/M, Gen, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), Mental Health Issues, Plague, Racism, References to Suicide, Stillbirth, Victorian Attitudes, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 58,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drac/pseuds/Drac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attempt at consolidating my Pendleton family headcanons, told via times when Treavor wore black, but mostly about Wallace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

It was his nurse who had found him, half-smothered and writhing along with the vipers that had invaded his crib. She had screamed, and that had alerted the maids, they had called for Morgan and Custis' tutor, Miss Smedley, and she had fetched the butler, who grumbles and leans heavily on his stick and wheezes as he climbs the stairs and takes one look at the bawling child covered in bite-marks, bundled in the arms of a cooing maid and says

'And has anyone informed Lady Pendleton?!'

'We're sorry, Master Higgins! Maria found him, and she was so very worried and...'

'By the Void! Wallace! Someone tell Wallace to get Lady Pendleton -' The maids flounder uncertainly '- IMMEDIATELY!'

'Yes, sir,' whispers one maid, meekly, and she disappears as Higgins all but collapses onto the chaise lounge, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

'What's happened to him?'

'There were vipers, sir, and he was tied to the crib, and covered with a blanket, and we think that maybe the twins -'

'- Well of course it was the twins, Miss Peters. You know very well that the twins are wicked children. We are almost lucky in the fact that when a crime is perpetrated in this house, we have but two possible culprits, and they never work alone. Will he live? It would kill her Ladyship to have to bury him, you know.'

The girl falters, and Treavor's breathing seems ever so quiet. 'I don't know, sir. He seems awful sick.'

Higgins heaves a sigh, 'Where is Maria? Isn't it her job to look after him?'

'... They took her downstairs, sir. She fainted.'

Higgins is about to launch into a speech about why the woman should be fired, and the other cock-ups she's made, and how if this gets out it will make _him_ look bad, and it will make the _Pendletons_ look bad, and that, for Higgins, is a fate worse than death – when his son appears, Lady Pendleton in tow.

'Oh, Treavor!' she half-sobs, and Wallace is fast enough to grab her as she sways on her feet. Lady Pendleton had always wanted a large family, Wallace's father had once told him, but she never had much luck with children. The midwife had told her not to name the stillborn babies, that they had never crossed the Strictures and would pass on into the stars. The midwife said that when this happened to a wolfhound, it would eat the silent pup, and never think of it again.

Lady Pendleton failed to see the circle of life in that. She had passed an Overseer and his hound once, and she had put her hand over Custis' eyes so that he may not see the monster, and Annalise and Edwin and Patrick and Dulce and Sebastian sleep sweetly in the family plot.

There are still crushed vipers in the nursery the next day, when Doctor Boretti comes to give his prognosis, and sits watching him twitch helplessly in his crib. The fits, he says, are his body's reaction to the venom. There is, he tells them, a chance – no - a _likelihood_ that the convulsions will kill him and Lady Pendleton should make arrangements. She cries all afternoon, and for most of the night.

Wallace's father tells him that Lady Pendleton is a pathetic woman – he doesn't mean that as an insult, not at all, merely a descriptor of her state – too many dead babes had turned her mind, and the Outsider knew what Treavor had done to her on his way out. (Wallace was seventeen. He remembers the blood.) Lady Pendleton, his father tells him, loves her children very dearly. It just so happens that the energy required to even look at them is beyond her most days.

When Wallace sleeps that night, he hears her sobs in his dreams.

–

Lady Pendleton finally gets her mind together enough to tell the staff that she will be taking Treavor and her lady's maid into the city, to buy Treavor a new suit. 'I want him to look pretty,' she tells them, and every single person in the room silently tags 'in his coffin' to the end of the sentence.

Treavor squirms dreadfully when Maria tries to dress him, and one of his spasming limbs hits her in the face and 'Oh _fuck_ he broke my nose!' ' _MARIA!_ ' 'He broke my nose!' - Treavor has indeed broken her nose, it gushes thick blood down her tidy outfit and into her mouth and she sobs and curls into a ball on the floor, and Treavor has one arm in his jacket and looks utterly terrified. Higgins doesn't even get to the same floor as them before he calls for Wallace to get some ice or a towel or _something_ , dammit, and Wallace dabs at Maria's face and the carpet and straightens Treavor's collar while his father talks in a hushed, calm voice to the hyperventilating Lady Pendleton.

'Wallace!' he calls eventually, and Wallace stands tall and tries not to look scared, 'You will handle young Treavor for her Ladyship when she visits the city.'

'Higgins, are you sure Wallace is -'

'Lady, I know that Wallace will keep your son from harm. He is gentle, but he is strong. He'll do well.' There is such pride in his father's voice then that Wallace burns, and by the void, he'd take a gun to the head, he'd take a knife to the eye for little Treavor Pendleton if it would make his father speak like that about him.

'Very well, then. Ah, well, Wallace – we'd best be off.'

-

Wallace has never in his maddest dreams been sitting in a carriage with her Ladyship and the lady's maid and a boy who will be a Lord one day. His mother is a _cook_. They sit in silence, her Ladyship looks stoic – dead inside, really – and the maid is nervous, and Wallace holds both of Treavor's hands to stop him scratching at the viper bites under his clothes – oh, he struggles against him briefly, but it is something other than resignation that stops him and lets Wallace sit there with his one big hand clasped over his own.

When they reach the tailor, it's getting dark, and the whale lamps are already lit. The tailor looks at Treavor's dour bitten face, ruffles his hair and offers him a smile. 'Been in the wars, little man?' Lady Pendleton asks for something in black, and her smile disappears.

It's customary for children to be buried in mourning – for their own lives, you see - and since the revolution there have been enough awful industrial accidents involving them that the tailor can whip out any number of pre-cut, pre-pinned outfits that need only a little taking in to fit horribly perfectly.

'You're a young man, Wallace, I suppose you know the fashions. Which pin with the cravat?' Lady Pendleton isn't so old herself, though. She was still a teenager when she had married his Lordship, and oh how the nobles had gossiped about that. Even now, she can barely be ten years older than Wallace. The pins are near-identical anyhow, silver, but where one has a neat enamel dahlia, the other has a simple green stone, set in jet.

Wallace looks over at Treavor, who is pouting miserably as the tailor marks up his sleeves in chalk. Black suits him less well even than the pinks and whites and ridiculous sailor costumes that are somehow still fashionable when the twins wore them however many years ago.

'Green,' he says eventually, 'it's a half-mourning colour.'

Lady Pendleton gives him a sad little smile. 'Correct choice.' she looks at the floor and swallows, and Wallace is terrified that she's going to start crying, he wonders if this is what she does alone in the east wing every day, and she chews at her lip and whispers, 'you will look after him, right? I mean... if he does... before he does... I don't think I...' her breath hitches, and Wallace passes her his only clean handkerchief and the blossoms her make-up forms over it don't soil it at all in his eyes. 

Wallace remembers carrying in firewood and cleaning broken glass and bringing his Lordship the newspaper when his father's shattered thigh-bone couldn't take the strain of walking the hallway. He remembers fetching hot water and boiling blood from towels on a stormy night five years ago and he remembers his father, that morning, and he looks at the little boy in the beautiful morbid suit, and finds a sudden purpose, however short it might last him.

'My Lady, I would be _honoured_.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Children's funerals in Victorian England were generally white-themed, but considering what a dark place Dunwall is 'spiritually', I guess, I felt that mourning for themselves was a bit more fitting.
> 
> Who knows when I'll get my next part written, but I felt the need to post this somewhere because I actually did something, finally! I haven't written fic for almost two years, so who knows if my style is off or whatever.


	2. ii

Treavor doesn't die that winter. Yes, he still has the occasional fit if he gets agitated, and the staff are under strict orders not to let him outside, but he doesn't die.

Wallace has a _job_ to do. An actual job as opposed to an odd job and he will do it until he falls down and dies, because he has been trusted with a life much more precious than his own. Wallace tries not to think about the fact that he never saw Maria again after the day Treavor broke her nose, tries not to imagine her begging in the street or huddled in her father's filthy apartment when the debt collectors break down the door. Wallace has a _purpose_ , and he will prove himself worthy, even if fulfilling that purpose mostly consists of playing tin soldiers with a five-year-old.

Treavor speaks to him now, lots, and Wallace wonders how he ever thought that the boy was shy – chronically nervous, certainly, but he'll run his mouth at anyone who comes into the room besides his brothers – her Ladyship stops visiting his room at all as he recovers, and his incessant chattering seems to visibly exhaust her.

In the month of High Cold, not long after the twins' tenth birthdays, the lady's maid finds Lady Pendleton dead on the couch in the east wing parlour.

Wallace learns a lot of things that day; he learns that there is no good way to tell a man that his young wife is dead, he learns that children can smell things that adults don't want them to know about from _miles_ away, he learns that there is nothing quite as embarrassing as a group of grown men trying desperately not to say 'suicide' in a room where the air is thick and sweet with cyanide.

The funeral is a very low-key affair, and the Emperor only comes because he is _technically_ family, and he has a very loud discussion with Lord Pendleton about _shame_ , and missed parliamentary sessions and 'first you say your son is dying -' '- we thought he was! -' '- and then your wife offs herself -' '- Euhorn, please! -' '- You're an embarrassment, Alfred! People are calling for a disciplinary, and you know I don't want to put some cretin on the front bench in your place -' '- only because Boyle and I are the only brains on the bench in the first place -'

'I would take that as a compliment if I were you, Alfred. You're having a turbulent time. Give my regards to your sons.'

'... Yes, your Majesty.'

Lord Pendleton is a man who laughs in the face of tradition. He's _old_ , he says, and he doesn't have the time to mope around. He goes back to Parliament within two weeks, starts going to society parties within a month, and three months after that he stops even wearing black at all. Wallace's father tells the staff that under _no circumstances_ are those three boys going to follow His Lordship's _ridiculous_ example - and he says 'ridiculous' without an ounce of reverence or shame and Wallace knows that he is deadly serious, and if it was up to his father those boys would be wearing black until they're grown men.

Every day for months Wallace dresses Treavor in the grave little suit his mother picked for him to wear in the ground, and the manor loses its usual eerie quiet, making way for a near-constant barrage of business associates and lawyers and strange women in strong perfume. Custis and Morgan, for their part, know exactly how much mischief they can cause without getting into trouble – they put frogs in the oven and douse the firewood in whale oil and manage to lock Treavor inside the piano; he breaks most of the strings and their teacher is so appalled that she refuses to come back – but when they come to dine with their father in the evening they are perfect angel boys (who only _occasionally_ snatch meat from Treavor's plate when their father looks down).

One of the strange women comes more often than the others, and then eclipses them altogether – she introduces herself to the boys as Miss Angelica – her hair is stiff from dye and when she smiles her teeth are rotted black stumps. Everyone bar His Lordship _loathes_ her – the cigars she smokes stain the furniture something wicked and the maids get huffy, she sends rude notes to the kitchen staff and even Morgan quietly complains that she whips the horses with undue malice.

Lord Pendleton marries her while his children are still dressed in mourning, and the Emperor only comes because he is _technically_ family, and he has a very loud discussion with Lord Pendleton about _shame_ while the young Princess Jessamine trades silly faces with Custis across the room, because they are only children after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Victorian mourning period for a parent was a year, I think it was closer to two years for a widow/widower but IDK it's a fictional world I can mess with things but maybe that gives a sense of the passage of time in this chapter? Like maybe 8 months from beginning to end? GOSH I AM NOT GOOD AT THIS
> 
> Anyhow I somehow wrote this chapter, sorry sorry sorry


	3. iii

Their Uncle Herbert falls down a pit whilst on a tour of the mines, and doesn't get up. Lord Pendleton is _furious_.

This is in part because Uncle Herbert is one of his oldest friends and smartest business associates – yes, they had a falling out over the remarriage, the late Lady Pendleton was his sister after all, but these things are easily patched.

Lord Pendleton wants to know why the mine was in such disarray that a man could _fall down a pit and die,_ but a good part of his furore is because he has a party planned in two weeks time and that is going to look tasteless, not to mention the fact that his children have grown _a fucking foot each_ since the last time they had to wear mourning.

Lord Pendleton's hands are shaky these days, and his father is practically illiterate, no matter how much he argues the opposite, so it is Wallace who has this _furious_ letter for the mine's foreman dictated to him. His Lordship stops half-way through his tirade, spins on his heel and peers at Wallace's slow, neat handwriting through his pince-nez.

'Oh, shit, boy! You can't write “fucking” there!'

'I can't?'

'Good _Lord_ , no. Just... get Miss Smedley, or someone with a little more sense. If not, perhaps I'll record this fellow an audiograph.' Lord Pendleton sinks into his chair with his hand on his temples.

'Yes, your Lordship. Sorry, your Lordship.'

As Wallace turns to leave he is walloped around the face by the rich stink of Lady Angelica's cigar coming in through the door.

'Alfred,' she exclaims, 'I've had the most marvellous idea about our party!' she grabs Wallace by the collar as he tries to slink out.

'A memorial party! A celebration of his work for you!'

Lord Pendleton looks up in interest, 'Yes...'

'And name an apprenticeship in his honour -'

'- and then give it to Custis!'

'Oh Alfred, I knew you'd understand me,' she titters, giving His Lordship a smoky kiss, 'you think it's a good idea, right, William?'

'Uh, Wallace, m'lady.'

'I'm sorry?'

'My name, uh – Wallace,' Lady Angelica gives him a burning look, 'that sounds like an admirable idea. Would we be needing to change the party's theme?'

Her face relaxes a little, 'Oh, more _gold_ , I think. And invite the Emperor.'

-

Lady Angelica buys Custis a very handsome suit for Herbert's memorial. She buys Morgan a marginally less handsome and considerably less expensive one, and he seethes. She throws Wallace the six-year-old suits that the twins wore to their mother's funeral and screeches at him to _do something about that boy!_

Wallace is lucky, he supposes, that the twins at ten and Treavor at twelve are nearly the same size, but the cut of the thing is completely unfashionable these days and the hems would probably be neater if the boy actually stood still while Wallace was trying to measure him, but he can't have it all. Treavor paces his room in his combinations, ranting.

'It's a _stupid_ suit, Wallace. I don't care, it's stupid!' Wallace hums in agreement through the pins in his mouth, 'why don't I get a nice new suit? Why don't I get to wear _hose_? Why is she worrying about money, she's rich! We're rich, Wallace, did you know that?'

'... I had an inkling.'

'I don't even know why I have to wear this _stupid_ suit, no-one knows who I am anyway, 'side from family, why can't I just wear blue? Dark blue, I mean, no-one would know the difference, and I'd only get sent to bed before the fun starts anyway, I bet I won't even get any cake, eugh.'

Wallace gives him a long sideways look and he sighs apologetically, shuffling back over to the window seat Wallace is perched in.

'Try the coat now – careful, that's only pinned, would you – Oh for – were you slouching before? Look at the waist, I swear, give me that.'

'Sorry, Wallace.'

Wallace is about to offer some words of platitude when Custis and Morgan barge through the door, screech 'Treavor's in his combies!', pick him up roughly by the wrists and ankles and charge him out of the room, cackling wildly before Wallace has much time to react, leaving him alone. He pauses, gets up, closes the door and tries to pretend he didn't realise until two hours later when he hears Lady Angelica screaming downstairs.

'Alfred! Your son is in the rosebush in his _unmentionables_!'

Wallace is very intent on his sewing.

-

Angelica complains that they are getting under the servant's feet whilst they try to hang banners for the party, so the twins shepherd Treavor out onto the grounds and spend a good half hour running rings around him on horseback, and after he falls down exhausted, putting on a show-jumping act over his prone body. It is _excellent_ fun. When the sun starts to dip and cast peach sprays between the trees, Custis trots over, leans down, and whacks Treavor across the ear with his riding crop.

'Get up, go back inside.'

Treavor rolls sluggishly onto his back, squinting in the low light.

'Get _up_ , you lazy fuck,' Morgan re-iterates, checking his pocket-watch, 'look, two hours until their ridiculous party starts. We need to get dressed.'

Treavor groans, awkwardly clambering to his feet as his brothers ride off toward the mansion. 'I'm already dressed, _stupid!_ ' he yells at their retreating backs, and feels really quite pleased with himself, right up until he meets his step-mother's deadly glare in the entrance-hall, and realises that throwing himself to the ground probably wasn't a great idea when he's _already dressed_.

-

Their father introduces him as 'my eldest son, the finest young businessman in the Isles, Custis Pendleton'. Morgan wonders if this party was _ever_ supposed to be about their Uncle Herbert.

The praise is fair enough, he supposes. Custis has been doing their father's accounts since they turned fifteen – he's got the fastest mind for numbers of anyone Morgan has ever met, he's leant his talents to people all over the Empire; the head of the Academy of Natural Philosophy says that he could realise some of the world's greatest inventions, but Custis has no imagination or patience for things that can't be bought and sold this instant, few loves beside the weight of cold coin.

Custis gives a pretty speech, lies entirely, about Herbert's fine character and good humour and the smart lessons he taught him; Herbert was a miserable arsehole, and no-one teaches Custis anything, really, but Morgan joins the polite applause all the same.

It's childish, he thinks, to be hurt by the fact that he isn't mentioned at all, though 'eldest son' isn't accurate, really – they were born together, touching, trapped, and there was no time when there was a separate Custis without Morgan, Morgan without Custis, eldest sons. He wonders sometimes, where he was supposed to end and Custis begin, he wonders if there is skin at the tips of his brother's fingers that is really his own, wonders if a drop of Custis' blood roams his body, completely different but exactly, exactly the same.

But there is wine, and it is good, and there is one of those fucking ridiculous gelatins that everyone just stares at because they're too pretty to eat and their father is ignoring him and when there is a gentle tap on his shoulder, a whisper of 'Custis?', Morgan wheels around and roars 'MORGAN!' into the face of Empress-in-Waiting, Jessamine Kaldwin.

'I'm... sorry?' she tries, eyes wide, gloved hand going to her chest. Her surly Serk bodyguard, Lord Attano, is giving Morgan the filthiest look and he desperately tries to back-pedal -

'Uh, Morgan, your Majesty,' he clears his throat awkwardly, 'my name is Morgan, Custis and I are twins.'

The princess seems happy with that at least, and she smiles, glossing the whole thing over. She is beautiful, probably the same age he is, a little younger, a little older? It's hard to tell. 'My apologies. What a wonderful speech your brother gave.'

'Yes, your Majesty. Wonderful.'

Morgan worries sometimes that people think he is stupid, the deficient twin, when Custis goes off to solve sums for barons, attends lectures at the academy, but Morgan's smart enough to know when he's made a mistake, not to push things with the people in charge – unlike Custis, he knows all about the hierarchy and his place within it, and he knows the exact right time to apologise, which is why when the princess politely backs off and goes in search of the real Custis, he doesn't call her back, doesn't play insulted. He stares at the bizarre gelatin for a good five minutes, until Attano slides alongside him, silent as the grave.

'I will let you off this time.'

His voice is rich and syrupy – the same accent as waiters and sailors and street-vendors, and it makes him nervous.

'What?'

'I don't trust you. So, I will have one eye on you.'

He speaks like a waiter too, threats read off a menu, off a script. Morgan wipes his sweaty palms on his frock-coat – Attano isn't a large man, or even a tall man, his hair is neat, and he smells good, but he has the tension of a coiled spring evident in every line of his body, in contrast to the frail lissomeness or bloated vanity of every other noble in the room and it makes him itch with fear, he's still only a boy.

'Ah, farewell, Lord Attano, I must... be... departed.'

With that, he takes six long strides out of the open door, sprints through the hallway and up the main staircase, only pausing for breath after he rounds the corner and knows that Attano can't be following him, looking up to discover that he is standing panting in Treavor's doorway, and the boy is staring at him.

'Why aren't you at the party?' he asks but as soon as he gets close enough the muddy shirt-front, the bruise on his ear and the reddening finger marks that _he_ didn't put on his face – that _Custis_ didn't put on his face – tell the whole story. Treavor heaves a sigh.

'She said I couldn't even go downstairs,' he says, then goes back to his book, the little diorama of toys on the floor.

Morgan picks up one of the pieces he recognises, a little porcelain horse with pretty painted features – that was his, once, most of them were, by the looks of things (or Custis' but that is unspoken for everything is shared between them, clothes and shoes and a face).

'Aren't you a little old to play with toys?'

'Yes,' Treavor says bitterly, no argument, and sweeps them up with one twitchy arm, horses and knights and a dinky wooden whale, like the poor children play with, sat atop the velveteen box that once held a watch (Morgan doesn't recognise that one), puts his face back in the book.

'I didn't mean you had to stop...' he says, but damn, being listened to is nice after an evening of being ignored. Treavor keeps his face in his book, but he isn't reading. Soft strains of music, a lady's laugh reverberate through the floorboards, and they both want to be down there but neither of them can.

'Why are you here?' Treavor asks after a few uncomfortable minutes, 'I haven't got anything. Pleasedon'thurtme.'

'What? I – no, I'm – it's hot down there and I'm claustrophobic,' he pauses, 'And don't talk like that, you'll look bad.'

'Yes, Morgan. Sorry, Morgan.'

(Treavor can tell them apart, he thinks, so that was the princess' failure, Treavor can tell which is which from the weight on the stair, from a turn of phrase. Treavor can tell them apart better than Custis can. Asking Custis not to hurt him would have guaranteed it.)

'No,' Morgan says, 'I'm -' he's heard stories of families tight as bandages, and sometimes he envies them, feels shame in the distance between them, '- what are you reading?'

Treavor looks suspicious, 'Earl Riley fighting the Outsider.' Morgan doesn't know the story, raises his eyebrows in prompt.

'Well,' Treavor coughs, and he looks up and Morgan is smiling, and it's not a dangerous smile at all, and maybe he returns it before starting the story. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops so this ended up being about Morgan what the hell. Anyway, I always found it interesting that Treavor said he'd miss Morgan but not Custis, because most people view them as a unit. WHO KNOWS MAN WHO KNOWS. (sorry) (Also I don't know how this one got so long whoops)


	4. iv

Nearly eight years after the death of the first Lady Pendleton, Lady Angelica pauses mid-argument down in the kitchens and falls down dead. They lay her open casket out in the entrance-hall, the room filled with sweet-smelling white flowers that the twins turn out to be horribly allergic to.

Treavor's current black suit now shows an uncomfortable length of skinny ankle above his shoes, and he's much too old for short trousers, but Lord Pendleton seems distracted as he writes Wallace a cheque of nearly two thousand coin for a new one.

'... My Lord, this is an awful lot of money.'

Lord Pendleton grunts, peering at it blearily, 'Yes, well, buy something nice,' he says, then looks back to his accounts, but everything he says sounds paper-thin and crackly, like he's seconds from breaking down. Wallace's father tells him that His Lordship is _old_ , boy, and a perfectly youthful woman like Lady Angelica passing away so suddenly has shaken him to the core, reminded him of the inevitability of his own passing. 

Wallace would take that and add that His Lordship has been drinking fortified wine near-unstoppably since his father gave him the news, but that isn't his place.

So, Wallace leads Treavor out past the gaggle of Overseers that have cluttered the driveway since Lady Angelica died and into the household carriage.

'Why are the Overseers even here?' Treavor asks while Wallace still stares dumbly at the ridiculous number on the cheque. He's never even thought about so much money before, it would take him _years_ to earn so much money – it would take years for he and his mother and his father so earn so much money together.

'They suspect witchcraft, I think. Her Ladyship was not old.'

'... So? My mother wasn't old, either.'

'That was... different.'

'How so?'

Wallace makes an unhappy noise and stares out of the window. Treavor huffs like a petulant child.

'If it was witchcraft, I hope they checked Custis. _He_ could be an agent of the Outsider.'

'You think? Not Morgan?'

'Hah! No, only Custis is so cruel that he'd attract that demon. Morgan is as thick as his own neck,' he says and then snickers to himself.

'That is hardly something for someone of your breeding to say, Lord Treavor.'

At least Treavor has the shame to look defensive about it, 'Yes, well, it's not just me that says it, you know! Custis says -' he breaks off into a high, wicked laugh that Wallace doesn't like at all '- Custis says that if Morgan got any fatter, people wouldn't even think they were twins any more!'

'So you'd side yourself with Lord Custis, would you?'

'Ach, Wallace, you're so boring!'

'Here to serve, my Lord.'

Treavor scowls and sits with his arms crossed for the rest of the journey.

-

There is a nice little tailor's shop in the Business District, owned by the daughter of the woman who pinned the lapels on Treavor's first funeral coat, but he doesn't know that, she doesn't know that. Wallace mostly lets the woman give her spiel and drape Treavor in yards of expensive fabric and silver buckles while he pulls faces in the mirror. The cost of the thing isn't even close to the money on His Lordship's cheque, and the woman can't find enough change for him, which is embarrassing, but Treavor manages to save the day by suggesting he get a new cravat pin, poring over the shiny trinkets on the velveteen sheet the woman supplies.

'I want one,' Treavor says, 'that says about my relationship with her. This one, perhaps,'

“This one” is a gaudy yellow-gold sunburst. Wallace frowns at it.

'No? I think it strongly represents my _joy at her passing_.'

Wallace doesn't disagree, but that's not his place. He coughs, 'the buckles on your coat are silver, my Lord.'

'Augh! This one, then.'

'A ruby, my Lord?'

'Red... for her _blood_.', and Wallace can't help but laugh at that as he indicates his purchase to the shop-owner, and she darts back-store looking for ribbons and wrapping papers.

-

They hold the wake at Pendleton Manor, and it is the kind of huge, sprawling party that no-one seems to go home from, just prop themselves up in corners if they want to sleep.

It's now long past midnight and Treavor is just exhausted but his father locked all of the upstairs rooms and he hasn't seen anyone who would know where a key is for _hours_ , and Wallace is gone and he doesn't know where, and it's for that reason only that when he spies the back of Morgan's head through the glass doors of the north wing parlour he wants to sing with joy.

'Morgan!' he hisses, creeping in through the door, 'do you know where Wallace is?'

Morgan grunts and shifts his head and, to Treavor's horror, a woman leaps out of his lap - oh, then he can see with aching clarity, Custis' shod feet hanging limply from the furthest end of the couch, and another blonde-headed woman sitting on the floor. They are all rip-roaringly, shockingly, unforgivably drunk.

The woman who had started at his entrance gives hearty swagger – 'That's Lord Morgan Pendleton to you, you little worm!', and Custis laughs breathlessly from wherever his head in laid on the couch.

'Worm he may be, brother he is also.'

'Another Pendleton! I thought it was just you two!' that's from the girl sat on the floor, who has such strikingly similar looks to the other that it throws him off guard for a second, but they aren't identical. No-one's truly identical, if you look at them hard enough.

The first woman has approached him now, and gives a polite curtsey, nearly falling over, 'Oh, my apologies. Esma Boyle, and my sister Lydia, over there.' Lydia raises one gloved hand in a kind wave while Esma walks around him, puts her hands on his shoulders.

'He looks like you,' she says, smirking evilly at the twins, and seems terribly amused by the chorus of ' _ **NO**_ \- _I_ – **HE DOESN'T!** – _DON'T!_ '

Esma trails her soft fingers over Treavor's face. 'Oh no, much more handsome -' Custis chokes back another laugh '- but look, same forehead, same ears, you see?'

Treavor, frozen with fear at this beautiful, perfumed woman draped over him, manages to squeak, 'Do you know where Wallace is?', and everyone laughs at him this time.

'A manservant?' Lydia asks, but Custis is very quick to correct -

' _Boyservant_ , and it isn't his job to look after you, you know, Treavor. He's probably in the kitchens, with the rest of the staff.'

'He is my manservant! He said so!'

'Father doesn't pay him so.'

'Augh!'

Treavor tries to leave but Esma Boyle has him trapped by her taloned hands over his shoulders.

'How old are you, Treavor?'

'Thirteen...'

'Same age as Waverly!' Lydia supplies from behind the couch -

'- Waverly's fourteen.'

'I'm _nearly_ fourteen!' Treavor says, and Esma laughs, deep and rich.

'You are eager, aren't you? Waverly would _like_ you.'

'... She would?'

'Don't encourage him,' Treavor is so blind-sided that it takes him a moment to even work out which of his brothers is talking, which is all the more embarrassing for the fact that Morgan is very passed out. Custis sounds annoyed now, and maybe even threatened, and that means that he needs to leave right now. He wiggles his shoulders desperately against Esma's pretty hands.

'I think you'd better let him go, Esma, lest he make a mess,' Custis gives a cruel smile and Treavor makes a dash for the door, and then the hall, down the servant's staircase to the kitchens, where Mrs Higgins sits half-awake in her chair and is fairly horrified by him seeing her in such a state.

But she doesn't know where Wallace is, or his father for that matter, and he is tired and alarmed and his suit smells of sweet wine and women's perfume, and in the end he sleeps in the east wing parlour, trying desperately not to think about the ghosts that the twins have told him haunt there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmmmmmmmm my laptop is returned. Anyways, as far as ages go I think that at the point of the last scene of this, the twins have been 18 for ~ 2 months, Esma's a year older than them (19) and Lydia's a year younger (17), and then Waverly would have been 14 for ~ two weeks and Treavor's about 2 weeks off of his 14th birthday. 
> 
> HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM (i am not very good at this)


	5. v

Treavor is woken the next morning by the sound of his mother's old lady's maid screaming and then passing out, falling face first onto the parquet. That's unsettling.

The house is a mess, and all of the servants are working double-time to clean up spilled flowers and cider and wine and pastry-crumbs, but at least that makes Wallace easy to find.

'Wallace, Madam Hughes fainted in the east wing parlour.'

Wallace looks up nervously from the puddle of booze he is tending to. 'What were you doing in the east wing parlour?'

'Sleeping...' Treavor answers, and then to Wallace's questioning look – 'My bedroom was locked! I wasn't going to sleep in the north wing with _Custis_.'

'No?'

'He'd smother me! Look, I need you to help me with Hughes!'

Wallace unbends in a succession of movements that look almost painful, setting the pace back to the east wing. Hughes has woken up by the time they get there and she leaps at them, taking Treavor's head in both hands and kissing him furiously on the forehead, cheek, eyelid.

'Oh you poor boy! I saw you there and I thought – augh – just like Rosie – ah! You're fine, you're good -' she kisses him again, and Treavor pulls an exceedingly ugly face.

'Ah, Wallace,' she says eventually, looking at his worried expression over her shoulder whilst Treavor desperately tries to pull his face out from between her clammy fingers, 'you're a good lad. I'm sorry if I alarmed you, my Lord, I – forgive me.' she wipes her hands on her trousers and leaves, ashen-faced.

Treavor watches her leave. '... Weird.'

'You think?'

'Well, she – no-one comes in the east wing parlour, you know? Why would she -'

'Your mother died in here, you know.'

There is a long, long uncomfortable pause, and then Treavor says, 'How? W-was she ill?'

'... I suppose.'

'Oh,' Treavor says, 'oh. I don't remember... I don't know, I – Wallace? Were you cleaning something? You should go back. Higgins would...'

'Are you coming, my Lord? We should lock this room up.'

'Yeah, I – Wallace, did you have the key to my room this whole time? Where were you last night!? I had to sleep on a _couch_ , Wallace, did you know that?'

'I... yes, my Lord. I had a meeting with my father.'

'With your father!?' Wallace can see him desperately racking his mind for something rude enough to express his frustration, but not actually blasphemy, considering the Overseers still loitering. He goes for 'AUGH!

'Wallace, you're so old -' he spreads his hands as if to encompass the breadth of his oldness, '- if I were as old as you, I'd _never_ have to answer to my father _ever again_ , or Custis, or Morgan, or anyone.'

'With all due respect, it's a little different for a servant.'

'Yes, well, but you're also my friend, right? Doesn't that count?'

Wallace gives him a look that is part embarrassment and part sadness and absolutely one hundred percent pity, and he says, 'I wouldn't let anyone else hear you say that.'

Treavor hasn't got many friends. A lot of the time he was supposed to be spending forming primitive bonds with other children he spent convalescing from those _stupid_ vipers, or swaddled in blankets with some hacking cough, and then there was the family scandal and all the rest, and other nobles didn't much want to take their children over to Pendleton Manor.

Timothy Brisby is a couple of years older than Treavor, but he's not funny or interesting enough for the twins, so whenever Brisby's father comes to bother Treavor's he and Timothy end up making stilted conversation about books or something while Brisby keeps trying to drag the subject back to something totally _vulgar_.

Brisby, however, must be even more desperate for contact than Treavor is, because he considers this pathetic association a friendship, and gives Treavor one of his _very special_ playing cards to prove it. It has a naked lady painted on it, in vivid detail – supine pose, bright pink nipples and a tangle of dark hair at her crotch. Treavor puts the card under his mattress.

Montgomery Shaw, on the other hand, is closer to Treavor's age, but he's a smug little shit, determined to embarrass Treavor from the off.

'Montgomery,' he had said, hand held out to shake, 'but my friends call me Monty,' and Treavor had made the mistake of then calling him Monty, to which he'd said, 'we're not friends!' and laughed, and the twins laughed too, and Treavor had never wanted to hit someone so badly. (Because he's wanted to hit the twins hundreds of times but that wouldn't be a fair fight, because he's sure that if he ran fast enough and then jumped he could cause some real damage, because how dare this horrible ugly boy make a fool of him in his own house.)

Treavor is fairly sure he doesn't _need_ friends anyway, in the end. He's _charming_ , he's near-certain on that one, and funny, and clever, so friends will come when the time calls for it. For the time being he's got Wallace and that's nearly the same, isn't it? (In his heart of hearts he knows it's absolutely not but he doesn't know where to find friends or where they grow – sometimes he thinks about asking father if he could pack up and go to a boarding school out in the country with all the other boys, but then who knows if they would like him and if they don't he'll just be alone in an unfamiliar bed – Treavor's friends are supposed to be the children of his father's friends, that's how nobility has worked for centuries.)

Wallace holds open the door, features smooth with practice, leads his charge down the cold halls, back to scrub at his allotted awful spilled mess. Treavor hovers awkwardly behind him, rumpled suit; rumpled hair, until Lord Pendleton, leaving his office to find something (booze, Wallace thinks, but he daren't say it) grabs Treavor by the collar and pulls him away, shutting the office door behind them.

Treavor doesn't go in his father's office much. Custis spends a lot of time there, going through the ledgers with Father, and Morgan might pop in and out to get something okayed or for a brief conversation, but Treavor mostly stays in his own room, or the kitchens with Wallace and Mrs Higgins, or on the grounds, walking. Some times, when Custis is really busy, Morgan will take Treavor to the botanical gardens, and they'll drink tea in the glass café overlooking the canal. Morgan will talk about horses and parliament and whichever lady has caught his interest this week, and Treavor will listen intently, take mental notes and wish for Custis to die in a freak carriage accident.

One of Treavor's tutors, years ago, had told him that identical twins happened when one soul was broken in two, and so the bodies each grow around half a soul. They could be different inside, like splitting fruitcake dough, one part with more raisins, one with more orange peel, padding it out with plain flour to make two that seem whole from outside, but aren't quite right inside. That's why identical twins are weak, and why identical triplets almost always die. Treavor doesn't know much about baking. He's not sure his tutor did either.

'Treavor,' his father says, 'don't bother the servants.'

'But Wallace is -'

'I don't care what Higgins' boy has taken upon himself to do -' _boy_. Wallace is past 30 now, and his father is a feeble elderly man with an old bullet in his thigh. In any other household Wallace would be the butler but instead he's scrubbing a floor and listening to an argument through a door '- he's not your nanny.'

'I don't need a nanny. I'm nearly fourteen!'

'Exactly. Leave him alone, go do your sums or your piano or whatever it is you do.'

'My _mother_ told Wallace to be my manservant,' Treavor says, and Wallace internally winces. He may have embellished that a little bit. A tiny little bit. He'd only been asked about it once, when Treavor was still a little boy, and he'd panicked and inflated the whole thing. He didn't think he'd _remember_.

Lord Pendleton says, 'Your – your mother?' and there is a shaky clink of glass on glass, the awkward scrape of a decanter being stoppered, his Lordship sitting down heavily in a hard chair. This feels like the bottom falling out of a tub, and years of filthy water dropping like a stone. Lord Pendleton says, 'you'd speak of your mother?' and Wallace can hear Treavor's shoes shuffling on the carpet.

'I loved your mother, boy, and you think you can pull her word from her grave to disobey me?'

'Father, I-'

'No,' Lord Pendleton says, and his voice is like an old log in the fire, 'Higgins' boy is your manservant, okay.' In his minds eye, Wallace can see His Lordship holding out his wizened hands in a placating gesture. He's practised. That's what he does. It's his job. 'It's – it's fine. Tensions are high. Angelica -' and here his voice breaks and Wallace feels awful for that ruby pin at Treavor's throat '- without her -' he sighs deeply, '- just be presentable tomorrow, please. Lord Boyle wishes to do business and you can't run around looking like an urchin. Send a girl in, Treavor.'

Treavor leaves the room as quickly as possible, leaning against the closed door with a pale face.

'He was crying,' he mouths at Wallace, drawing exaggerated tear-streaks down his cheeks with his fingertips, face pulled into a comedy expression of confusion and alarm, and then he walks off, alone, to his own bedroom.

Wallace doesn't tell his father that His Lordship had been crying, although he does quietly suggest to him that perhaps they could all be a little less liberal when filling his glasses. This earns the entire staff a long impromptu speech on _The General Lord Alfred Pendleton, War Hero,_ that everyone has heard a dozen times before. This time, he fixes Wallace with a pinning glare as he finishes his story, how he, Higgins, having caught a bullet in the thigh had laid down to die in the field and His Lordship, alone!, yes! picked him up in his arms like a baby and carried him back under heavy fire.

'He said to me, “Higgins, I will take you home to your wife and your boy if it's the last thing I do!” I would have died were it not for that brave man, that kind man, that _honourable_ man -'

'Apologies, father.'

'Too right! Now you go check on your boy, and then we can get all this sorted and have an early night!'

Wallace hopes that his father doesn't call Treavor 'Wallace's boy'. The thought scares him to death because Treavor is Noble and Wallace is a Commoner and that is his place, those are their places, that's how it works. Wallace knows this like he knows he lives in a vast, godless universe, like he knows his father was crippled, was willing to die – expected to die - for a man who barely pays him, like he knows that he was born in a house that will never be his and he will spend his entire life maintaining it but he could be booted out with no notice and that is fine because _that is the way it works_.

-

Lord Boyle turns up first thing in the morning, dressed in bright colours that would be offensive even if the house weren't in mourning. The twins give him brief greetings and head out hunting. He pulls Lord Pendleton into a rough hug booming 'ALFRED,' into his hung-over ears.

'My Waverly wanted to see the house,' he says, indicating her and sweeping Lord Pendleton into his office, 'she's about the same age as your youngest, correct?' leaving Treavor and the beautiful girl alone.

Waverly doesn't introduce herself. She says, 'Daddy's here to exploit your father while he's weak. He's very clever.' and starts up the stairs. Treavor stares. She's not unlike her sisters, golden blonde and disturbingly graceful for a fourteen-year-old. Stopping on the top step, she turns, 'aren't you going to give me the tour, then?' and Treavor positively _runs_ after her.

They pass wordlessly down the corridor, past old portraits of Treavor's father, grandfather, father's grandfather – his favourite, the wedding portrait of his parents, is locked away in Father's office, and he hasn't seen it in years.

'Are you always this quiet?' Waverly asks, eventually, 'Esma said I'd _like_ you. She's not often wrong.'

Treavor makes an embarrassing noise.

'She said I'd like your brothers too, though Daddy says I'm not allowed to talk to them. Daddy says your brothers are _beastly_ ,' she says, and Treavor is suddenly in his element.

'Well, yes.'

'Yes?'

'They are – beastly, that is.'

'Really?' she latches onto the conversation like a leech. 'What do they do?'

'All sorts of things. Terrible things. Not suitable for a lady to -' Treavor is suddenly up against his grandfather's portrait with Waverly's jewelled, warm hand around his neck.

'I don't think you've ever met a Lady before,' she says, and drops him, 'so I'll let you off. But you have to tell me _everything_.'

Treavor tells her _everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo yo yo this did not turn out how i planned so all of the stuff i really wanted to write is going next chapter I guess whoooops. It's sortof interesting how in-game, Wallace was disparaging of Havelock because he worked his way to being an admiral rather than just being given the title? so i guess that's what that bit is about whoopsie i'm so sorry
> 
> Also; Waverly, let me talk to you about Waverly she's gonna be in this an awful lot I love her a lot okay. WAVERLY.


	6. vi

Treavor _likes_ Waverly, he tells Wallace conspiratorially that evening. She's beautiful and clever and very nearly evil, and he likes that in a person. She reminds him of himself, of the self he has cribbed from a hundred story books, copied lovingly into a hundred gazelle-leather-bound notebooks, where every instance of 'the young lady' becomes 'the young lord', and every instance of 'wicked step-sisters' becomes 'wicked twin brothers' and 'evil step-mother' stays 'evil step-mother' – in Treavor's stories there are no bad endings, and the young lord marries the beautiful young lady he pines for, and his evil step-mother never sticks a hand out from her grave to trip him into the river. He never drowns. The one time Morgan finds one of Treavor's notebooks he laughs until he's sick.

Lord Boyle comes back every day that week, finishing his deal, and every morning Waverly smiles coyly from the doorway. She's wonderful and wicked and she gasps in all the right places in his stories – the time the twins launched him onto the back of a sleeping blood-ox bull, the time they flung gazelle steak down the cleavage of one of their father's lady friends, their oil-soaked firewood, the pranks they'd rope him into playing on their step-mother – it's only when he's much older that he'll realise that all she ever wanted to hear of was his brother's exploits. If he's involved in them at all that's just a bonus, but Treavor doesn't notice that, yet. He invites her over for his fourteenth birthday, and she says she'll arrive at ten but by half past eleven he hasn't seen her, or a messenger, or anything. He sits out on the front step, waiting, thinking, and then gets a slap round the back of his head.

'Ow!'

Custis laughs, kicking him with his riding boot.

'We've been looking for you -'

'- couldn't leave without giving birthday wishes -'

'- to our baby brother!'

Morgan kicks him this time, harder than Custis.

'Ow! Stop that!'

'Now, now, it's tradition! Morley beats, how you become a man,' Morgan explains.

'Do you feel like a man, Treavor?' This is punctuated with three sharp slaps to the face, Morgan shouting 'Four! Five! Six!', and roaring with laughter.

'Ow! I am a man!'

'Hah!' - another kick, in the shin this time ('SEVEN!') - 'At least stand up, you're making this really boring.'

'Ow! How do I get you to stop?' he raises his fists in a pathetic imitation of the pugilists in his books, squaring up against his brother.

'You don't,' Morgan supplies with a laugh, 'you get one for each year and one for luck -'

'- two for luck, I think. Poor Treavor _needs_ luck. Nine to go,' and he provides a few more – (Morgan dances on the toes of his boots, 'Eight! Nine! Ten! Eleven!') - as Custis slaps him Treavor sinks his canines into the heel of his palm and he pulls away, hissing.

'What the fuck, Treavor!?' Custis makes a few expressions of disbelief at him, at Morgan, showing the hand to them both; there is one swelling bulb of blood there, smeared at the edges. 'You're a lunatic! What kind of man fucking bites someone? What the fuck?'

Face suddenly red with humiliation, Custis kicks wildly at Treavor's legs until Morgan calls him off, finishing with a stunning punch to the eye that forces Treavor to his knees, feeling his cheekbone puff beneath his fingers almost instantaneously. Custis storms off angrily toward the stables, and Morgan just... stands there.

'Waverly Boyle's supposed to be coming over,' Treavor says, testing the tenderness of his face, 'yeah, thanks, thanks loads, Morgan, thanks so much. Am I bleeding?'

'No,' Morgan says, but he passes down a lace-edged handkerchief all the same. Custis shouts from the gravel path down to the stable – 'MORGAN! We are going _riding_!'

'- Yeah! Yeah, I'm just coming – I, Treavor, who bites people? Seriously?' he looks around, then, almost like he's nervous but Morgan doesn't get nervous, 'We got you a -' 'MORGAN FOR FUCK'S SAKE!' '- I'M _COMING_ , CUSTIS! Happy birthday, Treavor.' Morgan turns and sprints away, leaving Treavor with a small, heavy box in his hand.

It's a watch, which is nice, because one of the twins got their grandfather's watch but they share, they share everything with each other and nothing with Treavor, so he hasn't even seen Grandfather's watch. This one's silver – Pendleton Silver – neat family crest stamped on the back of the casing, careful embossed flowers on the front. The inside contains the most detached good wishes Treavor has ever read -

Brother,  
on your  
14th  
from  
Morgan & Custis

\- but all in all he doesn't have much of a standard for watches and this one is heavy and shiny and the chain clips handsomely into his waistcoat, so he's pleased with it. When she arrives, and she does arrive, Waverly tells him that it's _pretty_.

'You mean it's a girl's watch?' he asks, and she throws back her head and laughs, long throat bared at him.

'No, it's nice, I mean. A lady's watch goes on the wrist, you see?' Waverly's wrist is dainty and slim and not unlike his own but she wears her own skin so much more comfortably than Treavor does. Waverly tells him that she's _bored_ of Pendleton Manor, and she wants to go into the city. She's planned this, because as soon as they step out into the street she throws an old (battered, servant's?!) coat over her pretty blouse and pulls the waist of her trousers right down around her hips so they sag around her knees. Treavor is _appalled_.

'You look like a _vagrant_!' Waverly stops, turns, gives him a thoughtful look, then smears a fistful of dust from the road across his jacket.

'So do you. You've got a beautiful shiner.'

'Waverly! My step-mother would -'

They both stop this time.

'Sit pretty in her urn, I imagine.'

' _Waverly_!'

'Oh shut up, Treavor, that's a lovely pin in your cravat. You know you shouldn't wear red for at least another six months, don't you. I'm sure that's not symbolic at all.'

'You hush. You didn't _know_ her.'

Waverly huffs, because she knows she's won the argument, grabs Treavor by the elbow and all but pulls him across the road.

People forget quickly what a beautiful city Dunwall is as the cold seasons turn dry and the daylight blesses Gristol with a few more minutes each day. In Draper's Ward the air is crisp even at midday, and the lords and ladies and neat upper-middle-classmen dress in fineries that it's just warm enough to wear out of the house. Treavor likes Draper's Ward, so Waverly doesn't let them stay there, leading him out along the banks of the canal, further inland, until they're basically in the countryside. When she finally sits down, swinging her legs over the lock, Treavor is red-faced, sweating and panting. Waverly laughs at him.

'We're barely two kilometres out of the city.'

Treavor wheezes a bit, and manages to snap – 'you said we were going _into_ the city.'

'We did! And the back around and out the side again. If you lived on a normal estate by the canal this would have only taken a few minutes.'

'Apologies for my ancestral home,' Treavor says, sitting down beside her as she digs through the pockets of her outsize coat.

'Why are you even wearing that?'

Waverly looks at him like he's stupid, and that hurts. He's fairly sure he's not actually stupid.

'Have you ever met a lady, Treavor? I mean, for real?'

Treavor has met ladies – although he can count them across his fingers and he's near-certain that maybe half of them don't count – his mother (he doesn't remember her), his step-mother, his old nurse, his old governess, Waverly Boyle and her sisters, his old piano teacher, his cousins Celia and Anna, that's not a bad haul, right?

'I'll help you out a little, Treavor. If they're related to you, they don't count. If someone was paying them to be there, they don't count. Have you met any ladies, Treavor?'

'... I suppose not.'

Waverly sighs, deeply, and then she says, 'I should have a chaperone. But, dressed like this -'

'- Why don't you have a chaperone!?'

'I... it's more fun, isn't it? We're adults, so why shouldn't we discover the world for ourselves?'

She makes a fine point, or maybe she's got a fine face and Treavor is easily swayed, but he doesn't argue any more.

'Anyway,' she continues, 'I wanted to try something.' Extracted from her pocket are a few tangled feet of embroidery thread, and a hunk of luncheon meat wrapped in gauze. Treavor tries not to think about what Wallace would say about the sweaty pocket-meat.

'I read,' Waverly's got such deft fingers as she unwinds the floss and ties a piece of the meat onto it, he could watch her for hours, 'that there are freshwater crabs out here, and you can catch them just like this. The crab sits on the meat when it eats it and then you pull it up and catch it. Daddy took me to the river once but he wouldn't let me try it. Daddy says that crabs are filthy animals.' Treavor's not so sure about crabs.

'They have big ones in the sea,' he says, because he wants this to be a dialogue and hey, he's seen a big sea crab because they had one for cousin Celia's 18th birthday and it was about four foot wide and pink, and everyone acted like that was impressive.

'They're not the same as the sea crabs,' Waverly says, tugging distractedly at the thread, and she's right because when she pulls one up ten minutes later it's green and fits neatly into the palm of her hand. Treavor is even less sure about crabs.

'What are you going to do with it now?' the crab skitters sideways up Waverly's arm in a way that makes his stomach churn.

'Put it back in the river, I guess.'

'Why'd you even get it out of the river then?'

'Book said I could,' she says, with a dazzling honesty that he just doesn't possess.

'You should keep it. Come put it in Custis' bed when we go back.'

She laughs at that, tosses the crab bait back into the river, 'we should put loads in Custis' bed,' she says, and Treavor thinks that that is a magnificent idea.

-

When they have more crabs than Treavor can hold in his hands, Waverly takes off her coat and shows him how to carry it like a sack. When the sun starts to set, Treavor stands up decisively, hands Waverly the writhing coatful of crabs and announces that they should get back to his home before the twins return. The walk back seems even longer than the walk there, but Waverly seems energised and excited and, oh, she's got such clever plans for these crabs – because some could go in a drawer or on a shelf or in a pocket of one of his shirts, oh Void, this is going to be hilarious.

Together, they carefully plan their movements through the mansion – Treavor says that they should go through the main entrance because the servants won't like them taking all those crabs through the side and if they go in through the back they have to go past Father's office (or, more recently, his semi-permanent seat on the conservatory couch, cigar in one hand, wineglass in the other). The plan is perfect, it is so well-prepared. They reach the manor, and go inside, on tiptoes, exchanging furtive smiles.

Lord Boyle yells.

There is a moment that just goes so slowly – Treavor's father pulls an expression of disgust and disappointment and fuck, Morgan and Custis start laughing from the top of the stairs and Lord Boyle is rushing towards them and Waverly shrieks and drops her coat and tens of still-damp green-brown river crabs start skittering over each other and the marble hall, and then there is near-silence, punctuated only by the random scrabbling of the crabs. Lord Boyle grips Waverly tightly around the upper arm.

'Alfred,' he says, 'your fucking boy -' and a cacophony rises around him, the twins' laughter near-maniacal -

'Father, I -'

'My boy?'

'Daddy, please!'

'- No! You, boy – utterly disrespectful to take my Waverly out of the house without a chaperone. Waverly – you know damn well what you should do, I am hugely disappointed. Alfred, gentlemen, good day.' hand still vice-like around Waverly's arm, he tugs her from the building, still furiously, shrilly shouting at him.

'Unhand me, Daddy! I am a _woman_ -'

Inside the manor, uncomfortable quiet falls. The twins dry their eyes, sighing, and Higgins carefully shuts the front door.

'Father -'

Father gives him a long, long look. 'Oh, go away, Treavor,' he says, and picks up his wine-bottle from the sideboard. Funny, how when Treavor's older he'll forget how the drink made his father cold and cruel, just remember how it soothed the wounds in his mind, soft enough to let him think, safe enough to let him sleep. Treavor, for the moment, cries in his bed for an hour, until Wallace comes in with a cup of tea.

'Get out of here, Wallace. I'm having a terrible day.'

He's not lying, either, all the scrunch-faced sobbing has made his black eye ache and he's humiliated and sweaty all over again.

'Okay, my Lord. My mother wanted to thank you very much for the crabs.'

'... they were Waverly's idea.'

'Well, my mother likes them very much.'

Treavor is absolutely completely unsure of crabs now. He says, 'they were supposed to go in Custis' bed,' and he finds himself sobbing harder over that than anything else. Wallace backs politely out of the room, and when Custis finds six little crab pincers in his pillowcase he knows absolutely nothing about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this toook ages and i dont know how it got so long or so ridiculous. Crabs, man. tell me what you think maybe i'm really really bad without feedback ahahaha


	7. vii

            vii-

Wallace doesn't mind being a servant, or perhaps he doesn't allow himself to mind. He's lucky, for the most part, that he was born directly into a job, a duty, and that's not entirely unlike nobility, in the end.

Wallace likes that, the certainty of his place in the world, or perhaps he doesn't allow himself to dislike it. The complete lack of social mobility across the isles is a fact of life and, in the end, Wallace has a home and a job and a pretty decent bed to sleep in, though he's wasted hours of his life explaining to Treavor why he shares it with his parents.

The bed is probably a Pendleton heirloom, to be honest. Generations of Pendletons have been conceived on the bed, but Wallace's father received it as a wedding present from His Lordship over thirty years ago, and it is yet more proof, to him, of the godlike status of _the General Lord Alfred Pendleton_. Wallace's father never talks about the fact that His Lordship was getting a replacement bed at the time, or that the mattress hasn't been changed in, what, forty years?

Treavor says, 'so, if you had brothers, would you share with them too?'

'... I suppose.'

Treavor says, 'eugh,' and Wallace can understand that, because Custis snores so loudly he wakes himself up and Morgan just takes up so much _room_ when he's sleeping, sprawling and rolling and kicking like a hound having a dream. Wallace is glad he doesn't have brothers.

One morning, Wallace wakes up in the bed he shares with his parents, and his father doesn't.

The house falls into anarchy without Wallace's father hitting people in the shins with his cane, his mother is... she's ruined. They give kitchen duty to one of the girls but Custis gets food poisoning and she disappears during the night. Wallace tries to make butler-eyes at His Lordship – the drunken idiot, Wallace spends _days_ standing in heroic profile in shafts of low light and opening the door with swift control. His Lordship hires a gentleman from an agency, Mr Frost, who is a slimy bastard, younger than Wallace by nearly four years, a real arrogant piece of shit. Wallace _hates_ him. Treavor says that he doesn't seem so bad but he is _wrong_. How can Treavor possibly know how fucking awful Mr Frost is when he barely even sees him? No, Wallace knows, but after that blip everything falls back into step again, mostly.

His Lordship drinks far too much, and when a new report from the Royal Physician says that drinking can cause liver failure and death, he drinks some more. Wallace has never met anyone who drinks who was so lucky as to lose their liver first.

Lord Pendleton goes blind.

'I wish he'd died,' Treavor says conversationally one morning, all dressed up and ready to leave for the day, 'he hates being blind and he hates people pitying him and he keeps touching my face -'

'- you know that's how he sees the world,'

'- well he doesn't have to call me ugly after, then. That's just rude.'

'Now you're making things up.'

'Well, he says, 'Oh Treavor, I hoped you'd grow into your forehead' and 'Oh Treavor, get a haircut' and -'

'... it... is rather long, my Lord.'

'It's called _fashion_ , Wallace.'

'Uh-huh. Lord Morgan's suit is fashion too, then?'

Treavor sighs exasperatedly, 'It's not Morgan's suit, it's mine; I designed it.'

It looks a lot like Morgan's suit, the one Lady Angelica bought for Herbert's memorial, but there's a sleek new fur collar-piece and the lapels have been broadened and butchered with lime-green silk. He must be mentally cataloguing it for a long time, because Treavor says -

'Well, it was Morgan's suit, but I fixed it. Cousin Anna helped me.'

\- and gives a little turn, hands spread flamboyantly. His shirt is trimmed with an utterly unmanly amount of lace.

'Very... fashionable, my Lord.'

'Excellent. I'm meeting Waverly at the botanical gardens, Wallace, do you remember?'

Wallace remembers. It's actually rather difficult to forget, when the longest Treavor's gone without mentioning it is three days in the past month. Waverly turned sixteen in the week and Lord Boyle has finally relented after the crab incident and allowed them to be alone, together – provided he knows exactly where they are and what they're doing and Waverly's back before four. Still, it's better than it was, Lord Boyle and three servants watching them from every angle, not even being allowed to sit on the same sofa for a _year_. Treavor's dreadfully excited.

Waverly meets him in the atrium by the huge Pandyssian flowers, waving her fingers coyly, and she's beautiful, more beautiful than she's ever been, and puberty has gifted her with breasts unmatched outside of Timothy Brisby's special playing cards. He hasn't gotten to see them close up before, when Lord Boyle would gladly throw books or crockery or furniture at him for looking away from his own hands but yes, damn, they're fantastic, well done Waverly.

'You're taller,' she says when he reaches her, cocking her head to examine his suit.

'I'm going to be taller than my brothers yet.'

'How can you possibly know that, Treavor? Don't be stupid.'

'It's anatomy, actually. I'll be eight times the height of my own head.'

'Or you'll just have a big old head, like your father.'

'Hey, I -'

Waverly rubs a petal between two fingers, thoughtful, '- Is it true he's gone blind? Your father? From drink?'

'I – who told you that? He – he's not completely blind, he can see if it's light out -'

'- but he can't see.'

'... no.'

‘Ah,’ says Waverly, and then she reaches into her pocket, retrieves a beautiful gilt inkwell and places it firmly in Treavor’s hand.

‘Daddy’s been stealing things from your father’s office. That kind of thing’s only fair game if they know you’re doing it.’

‘Huh,’ Treavor says, slipping it into his breast pocket. Waverly nudges him along the flowerbeds, occasionally stopping to point out that these ones are poisonous, these are my favourites, these can grow twelve feet high when she stops short, grabbing him by the sleeve.

‘Look!’ she hisses, voice filled with uncomfortably mischievous humour, ‘a wedding!’

The wedding’s in the Morley fashion, traditional yellow under a marquee, the bride and groom both have a sprig of thyme at their throats. ‘How twee,’ Waverly says, tugging him towards them. When she gets close enough to be heard, she does a very alarming thing with her face and shouts,

‘Mirabelle!’

\- and the bride turns and beams at her.

‘Lady Boyle – I didn’t realise you were –‘ Waverly cuts her off immediately, kissing her violently on both cheeks.

‘So sorry we’re late, have we missed the ceremony? I’m sure it was _darling_ , congratulations!’

Mirabelle’s new husband is looking at them with something approaching hatred.

‘I thought we’d agreed not invite these kind of letches, Miri,’ he says in a false undertone that Waverly matches with her own false smile and absolutely no recognition of a single word he says.

‘We bought you a gift,’ she continues, ‘Treavor has it – That’s my friend, Lord Pendleton, I – Treavor, it’s in your coat pocket, I know,’ and she shoves her hand unceremoniously into his shirt-front, withdrawing his father’s beautiful silver-and-ceramic inkwell.

‘We know how much you love to write,’ she says, saccharine poison obvious in her words now, ‘so sorry it’s not wrapped. Come along, Treavor,’ and, taking him roughly by the hand, she marches him away from the couple, under the marquee, toward the wonderfully-arranged buffet table, from which she pockets a few handfuls of pastries, then sits down very conspicuously in a seat planned for a Mr Finley-Clarke.

‘I love weddings,’ Waverly says, picking apart a pastry with her fingers, ‘don’t look at me like that, it’s how the rich stay rich. You’ve just got to take things as though you’ve been told that you can. I don’t even know her, but I’ve made her day – isn’t that nice.’

‘Her husband didn’t seem so –‘

Waverly’s reply is like a whip-crack, ‘fuck him, stuck-up Morley pleb. At least Mirabelle is a shameless social climber – that, I can get behind. Sit down, Treavor. You can be Mrs Finley-Clarke.’

Treavor becomes Mrs Finley-Clarke.

‘Do you suppose we’ll ever get married, Waverly?’

‘What? Obviously. We’re youngest noble children – pawns made of solid gold. I expect you’ll marry a terribly boring businessman’s daughter and –‘

‘I meant to each other.’

‘What? I –‘ Waverly stops talking then, and starts laughing, hugely, gracelessly. She _snorts_.

‘It’s not stupid! It would be a business venture!’

If it’s possible, Waverly laughs harder – ‘Our fathers already do business! I – where have you been all your life, Treavor?’

‘We’re friends!’

‘That’s – that’s not why people get married, you void-damned – imagine - imagine if we had children!’

With an entirely unladylike snuffle, Waverly throws herself across the cutlery and laugh-sobs into the tablecloth.

‘I don’t – Waverly, we’re making a scene, I – are you crying?’

‘No!’ she roars but she is, her face red, open mouth like a weeping sore.

‘Waverly, I – did I upset you, I, come back here!’ but Waverly’s already sprinting off across the lawn, heels kicking up clumps of dirt, ‘ _Waverly_!’

-

It takes Treavor nearly an hour to find her, inside the Tyvian grapevine glasshouse, idly picking at the rubbery curlicues. She looks fine.

‘I was worried about you,’ he says, breathlessly, because searching acres of garden requires an awful lot more physical exercise than he’s really willing to do for anyone bar Waverly. She shakes her head.

‘I’m fine. I just upset myself thinking about,’ she purses her lips in effort, ‘how terribly ugly your children would be.’

‘ _Waverly_ ,’ he says, because he’s sure it’s a lie but Father and Morgan and Custis have told him time and again how utterly strange women are, so who knows. He likes to think his progeny wouldn’t be terrible-looking, after all, he’s...

Waverly shakes her head and, just like that, turns into the spiteful, bright little witchling that Treavor’s kind of fallen embarrassingly in love with. She says, ‘I never thanked you for the ring you gave me on my birthday. It’s very pretty.’

‘Wallace helped me choose it.’

‘Of course he did. You and him, you remind me of that book, Blaster and Smythe, you know, that idiot and his manservant, you know the one.’

‘... I resent that.’

‘It’s your birthday in Ice, isn’t it? You’ll be sixteen. You’ll have to get a job.’

‘I’m going to parliament, actually.’

‘Parliament’s not a job, it’s a hobby. What kind of _work_ are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to be a poet.’

Waverly frowns at him, ‘a poet.’

‘Yeah, the type who writes really meaningful stuff.’

‘Pfft, the only type of poet you’ll be is the kind who wastes away in an opium den, whispering the names of prostitutes.’

‘I wrote a poem about you.’

‘... please don’t.’

‘Waverly, Waverly, Waverly,  
The very name sweeps one away,’

It takes him another hour to chase her down again.

-

For Treavor’s sixteenth birthday, Father gives him a cigarette case. It says _Trevar_ on it, an unfortunate side-effect of being called Treavor with an A. Cousin Anna takes him to her house for lunch.

Cousin Anna wants to talk business. She’s well-versed in being the youngest noble sibling, and she’s got a handsome child and a handsome home and a handsome corsetry store to show for it, as well as her husband, Michele, the son of a Serk silk merchant.

She passes Treavor the green beans and then she asks him if he’d like to set up shop with her.

‘The surgeon next door is moving elsewhere, and we, Michele and I, we know that you, you’re making a name for yourself as –‘ ‘-an insufferable fop-‘ ‘-someone who knows about fashion, Michele, _please_ , and we thought that a boot-makers connected to our corsetry business would do everyone a favour,’ she pulls her hands out in front of her eyes, ‘ _Pendleton and Comis, Accessories to the Gentry_.’

‘... You want me to become a cobbler.’

‘Not a cobbler, a _Designer of Artisan Footwear_. You’ve got a flair for it, just draw a picture, really. We get some Serk grandmother to do all the stitching and so, and you could get fantastic rates on silver for buckles –‘

‘I’m not going to be a cobbler.’

‘And I just said you’re – what are you going to do, Treavor?’

‘I’m going to be a poet.’

‘Don’t do opium, Treavor, with your constitution, really –‘

‘I’m writing poems! Where do you –‘

‘It’s well-documented chain! Poems, opium, Outsider worship; death. You can’t just do whatever you want; look at my sister!’

‘Celia’s doing alright.’

‘She’s a _slattern_ , Michele, don’t undermine me.’

Anna takes a huge breath, reaches for the wine.

‘I’m trying to help poor Uncle Alfred, since, you know, his eyes. You can’t be a burden on him. You’re _sixteen_.’

‘I’m not going to be a burden. I’m going to get married!’

Cousin Anna is near-hysterical – ‘Married? To _whom_?’

‘... Waverly Boyle. She’s my best friend. That’s a secret.’

It is a secret, which means that everyone in their extended family knows about it before Anna can say ‘Cousin Treavor’s going to propose to Waverly Boyle’. When Treavor gets home that evening Father is waiting by the door and grabs him by the throat, sightless eyes boring holes into his forehead.

‘You’re not going to propose to Waverly Boyle.’

Treavor chokes a little bit.

‘I forbid it, Treavor! You can become a cobbler for fucking Anna or do her books or something but if I see – if I find out that you and Waverly Boyle –‘ he spits her name like it tastes bitter, like the pit of a rotten fruit, ‘- I’ll gut you, I’ll disinherit you, are we clear?’

Treavor gasps at him, and then he goes to cry in his bed for an hour, until Wallace comes in with a cup of tea.

‘Oh Wallace, you’re all I have.’

Wallace shuffles uncomfortably in the doorway, ‘I’m... I’m sure that’s not true, m’lord.’

‘I’m writing a poem about you, Wallace, come in, would you like to hear it?’

‘I, uh –‘

‘It’s called _The Birthday Party_ , it’s about when you put those crabs in Custis’ bed.’

‘... I did no such thing.’

‘Wallace,’ Treavor’s standing now, approaching him, and he’s not a small stupid boy anymore, he’s a small, stupid man with uncomfortably long hair, and for a second Wallace honestly doesn’t know what he’s going to ask him to do, ‘you wouldn’t let them gut me if I proposed to Waverly, would you?’

‘What? No, my lord I – I promised to protect you with my _life_.’

‘Excellent,’ Treavor says, grin spreading across his face, ‘help me send her some flowers, then.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this chapter only took me... three months. If people were expecting regular updates they were sorely mistaken, sorry :////// Treavor's a frickin idiot about Waverly and I refuse to believe that he didn't propose to her at least once, bless his stupid soul.
> 
> This fic's nearing it's first birthday and it's nowhere near done, how embarrassing. Hopefully my next chapter will include more waverly, more wallace and a cheeky bit of cousin celia. catch u on the flip-side homies xx


	8. viii

Treavor doesn’t really know how to go about proposing to anyone. Only a couple of his books give him any hints on technique and though Father has done it at least twice, asking him will risk a bollocking that Treavor is just not prepared for right now. Treavor composes a list:

A ring

He’s pretty sure on that one, possibly in a box, lots of velvet, silk, that sort of stuff. Easy enough to acquire.

Some sort of Permission

In a lot of Treavor’s stories the lovers are orphans and that makes things a lot easier. So, they could elope, or he could assassinate Father and Lord and Lady Boyle, or, in fact, he could just wait for Father and Lord and Lady Boyle to die. Father’s _old_ , older than even Wallace, (who Treavor is just coming to realise isn’t that old at all), and Lord Boyle can hardly be much younger, in the end, and he’s a lot more gouty than Father, who, as far as Treavor can tell, subsists entirely on a combination of pure fury and distilled spirits.

The last item on Treavor’s list should be simple. ‘Fall in Love’, it says, ‘make her fall in Love with me.’

This stuff is really easy in the stories, but they’re all very magical and fated and Treavor can’t work out how to do it _without_ magical fates.

Wallace is absolutely no help whatsoever in that regard, fobs him off with some line about not having a lover in over ten years; he can’t ask Father on pain of death, he can’t ask Anna on pain of death once Father finds out, and he can’t ask Morgan or Custis because he’s not that fucking stupid. His next best bet, Mrs Higgins, just cries when he asks her, so that’s no good, and he really is very nearly actually stumped when he has one of his best ideas yet.

Treavor doesn’t know the lady who opens the door. She’s stocky, undeniably beautiful – golden skin and dark hair and the strong, blunt features of the ice-fishing nomads of the north Tyvian coast. She’s also naked from the waist down.

‘There’s a strange man at the door,’ she calls, and Treavor can hear a muffled commotion inside the building, trying desperately to pull his eyes away from her bared flesh.

A second figure appears in the doorway, a tall, densely muscled man with smooth brown skin and an uncomfortably handsome face. He looks like the statues of the ancient Serkonan Gods that are exposed at low tide or in the cavernous ruins of temples on the volcanic cliff sides.

‘He is strange!’ the Serk God shouts back into a room that Treavor can’t see, and a disembodied voice answers –

‘Is it tax? I don’t pay tax.'

‘I’m not tax, I’m just here to see my –‘

‘He says he is not tax!’ shouts the Serk God, and the disembodied voice snaps -

‘I can hear, Claude!’

\- and emerges, dressed resplendently in a forest-green silk dressing gown.

‘Ah,’ she says, and then sudden recognition flashes across her face, ‘– I say, Vasilisa, Claude, this isn’t any strange man, this is my little Cousin Treavor! Come _in_ ,’ she says, though she doesn’t give him much choice, clawing one hand into his shoulder and tugging.

‘You look different to when I last saw you,’ she continues, forcing warm, oily kisses onto his cheeks.

‘That was six years ago.’

‘Six! Really? Seems only yesterday Dear Anna was marrying that boring man, you remember him, don’t you, Claude?’

Claude grunts in agreement, utterly unruffled by his own - and Vasilisa’s – very apparent nudity in Celia’s cold hallway.

Celia’s house is _strange_. It smells fruity and weird and it’s cold and some of the rooms Treavor can see along the hallway don’t have anything in them at all. A lot of the furniture along the hallway is covered by sheets. Celia leads him into a drawing room covered in silks, finds herself a seat and falls back onto it, stretching languorously.

‘How old are you now, Treavor? You must be –‘ she trails off, shaking her head, ‘- fourteen?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Sixteen. Eugh, you make me feel old. I remember when you were born.’

Treavor only vaguely knows Celia, if he’s honest. She pops up occasionally in the back of proper memories, like Mother’s funeral or Father’s wedding, but most of what he remembers about her he’s cobbled from awful flashes of her and Anna forcing him into dolls’ clothes because he wasn’t big enough to fight back. Father had told him to sit quiet and make himself popular with his cousins, so he had. He hopes it’s paid off.

‘Sixteen,’ Celia is still murmuring to herself. From the doorway, Claude makes a little signal at her, and walks off into the house.

‘Sixteen,’ Celia repeats again, actually sits up straighter to look him in the eye, ‘are you sure?’

‘Quite sure,’ says Treavor, perched on the chair opposite her, ‘it was only three days ago.’

‘Fuck, three days. How’re your brothers? How’s Uncle Alfred? How – VASILISA! MAKE US LUNCH – You will join us, won’t you, Treavor? We’re having omelette.’

‘Okay?’

Celia nods warmly, resumes her previous lazy pose, ‘Do tell me how my favourite Uncle is, then.’

Treavor never really knows how to answer that question, because Father’s in a semi-permanent state of miserable drunkenness, and he’s blind and he hates _everyone_ , even Custis at this point, and sometimes he’ll even call out for Higgins or Angelica or Rosie but he’s not _dying_ , as far as any doctor can tell, so Treavor says, ‘Fine, considering –‘

‘Considering?’

‘Well, you know... his _eyes_.’

‘Oh,’ says Celia, ‘oh, I had heard, but I’d assumed –‘ she shakes her head and there is something sad in her voice as she carries on, ‘- I don’t speak to Anna much these days. I thought _she’d_ tell me if something really had happened. I know now, I guess.’

An uncomfortable silence falls over them, Treavor shuffles his shoes on the floor.

‘Enough of that,’ Celia says, though there hasn’t been any of anything, ‘Pendletons don’t take a trip out unless they want something. What’s that?’

Treavor is suddenly very aware that he hasn’t actually phrased his request in his mind at all until now. _Anna says you’re a slattern and I thought you’d know how to get a girl to fancy me_ doesn’t sound very good when you’re facing the slattern in question and she has at least two companions not far off who could humiliate you bodily without even trying.

Treavor says, as earnestly and as foolhardily as he can, ‘I want to propose to a girl.’

Celia explodes with laughter.

‘Oh, bless you,’ she says, slinging an arm around his shoulders, ‘that is sweet. If you want money to elope I don’t have it, though.’

‘She… we’re not courting yet.’

‘You can’t plan that sort of thing without the lady in question, Treavor.’

‘I know but I –‘

‘- I’m not sure what advice you want from me, either.’

‘You’re…’ this is really embarrassing, actually. Silently, Treavor takes this whole idea down from ‘best idea yet’ to ‘third worst idea yet’ ‘- well, you have… attracted –‘

Celia’s laughing again, but it’s not kind any more.

‘Anna called me a slut, didn’t she?’

‘… not in so many words.’

‘She’s jealous, Treavor. That’s what she is. Look at what I’ve got.’ Celia is leading him towards the back of her house, through the huge, sparse hallway into a huge, sparse dining room, furnished with one long table. Vasilisa and Claude are dressed now, at least, though neither of them looks comfortable with it. Celia shoves him unceremoniously into the chair opposite Vasilisa, and her face is pinched and miserable. Claude puts his hand over hers across the table. The omelette is vile and no-one speaks for a long, long time.

Vasilisa eventually breaks the silence, waving her fork at Celia.

‘I do not like your cousin Custard,’ she pulls out the vowels so that it sounds nothing like the name she’s really referring to, ‘I meet him once.’

‘Cus- _tis_ ,’ Celia corrects, tartly, ‘I’m sure he didn’t like you, either.’

Vasilisa snorts – ‘Is not Tyvian name, I don’t care.’

‘Is Gristol name,’ Claude says, ‘no style.’

Treavor knows that his brothers were named for two lawyer friends of Father’s – Mr. Morgan and Mr. Custis – but Celia gives him a long look as she drains the last of her wine, so he shuts his mouth.

‘Treavor!’ says Vasilisa, as though she’s just remembered he’s there, ‘I did not tell you of my work for Anton Sokolov!’ When Treavor looks to Celia for prompt she just raises her eyebrows and smiles, and when he gets home that evening, he finds out that the Emperor has been assassinated.

-

Lord Boyle throws a party, and everyone attends, even Father, who refuses to wear dark glasses to disguise his darting eyes, who sends out a searching hand for any face that comes near him, who still assesses everyone’s fashion choices.

‘Treavor – I told you not to wear one of those queer suits you made!’

‘I designed them, Father, not _made_.’

‘Shut up, Treavor, make yourself presentable. Full mourning; no lace, no furs, no patterned silks, am I clear?’ Father’s hands hover over Treavor’s cravat, straightening the pin to a horizon he can’t see.

‘We’ll be late,’ Custis mutters and Morgan, in an uncharacteristic show of solidarity, claps a hand to Treavor’s shoulder, ‘Treavor’s presentable enough, I think.’

‘...as he’ll ever be,’ says Custis, but Father sighs, swings his stick out in front of him and starts walking toward the door.

‘Stop bickering,’ he says, groping inelegantly at his jacket-pocket for his flask, ‘my _head_. Custis, you’ll sit next to me in the carriage. Morgan, watch out for Treavor, and none of you drink more than a glass, do you hear me?’

Custis snorts audibly at that as he grabs his heavy greatcoat, and Father wheels around with his stick like a sabre, jabbing its foot to his chest, ‘Treavor will sit beside me in the carriage, if you find me so laughable.’ Morgan doesn’t even have the time to start protesting being skipped over ‘- Morgan’s too fat.’

‘I am not!’ Morgan calls but Father’s already out of the door, stamping off into the darkness, ‘I am not,’ he says to Custis, who laughs into his coat collar, ‘I am _not_!.

Lord Boyle’s party is resplendent with banners and curtains and thick glitter across everything like snow. In his ballroom a painting has been hung, a gigantic thing, the Emperor in the centre, surrounded by his closest generals from The War, over thirty years ago.

Lord Boyle’s in it, obviously, young and strapping, with thick, wavy blond hair the same colour as Waverly’s, and the sword at his hip looks sharp. Father’s there too, nearly the tallest of the lot, dark Pendleton hair - like Treavor and Morgan and Custis and Cousin Celia – only greying a little at the temples. He looks distinguished in his regalia and medals, face slim and handsome beneath a stiff waxed moustache that Treavor thinks he remembers him having as a very young child.

The Father not in the painting grips Treavor’s upper arm, tight, and pulls him close.

‘What does it look like? What has he done?’

‘Uh... there’s... glitter. Big black banners, you know? Old painting of the Emperor and the generals, uh –‘

‘And the generals?’

‘Yeah, uh, you and Lord Boyle, Lord Shaw I think, -‘

‘I know the one,’ says Father, approaching the wall thoughtfully, ‘that’ll be Shaw the Elder, Montgomery – he’s dead now. Who else? I remember the day. Two Brisbys, third and fourth – get me a damned chair, Treavor! – Brimsley, Howsloe, Moray? No, Moray would have been too old. Hillier? No, too young –‘

‘- You’re forgetting Preston and Sheffield, Alfred.’

Lord Boyle has crept up on them, and though he doesn’t surprise Father in the least, he scares the shit out of Treavor.

‘There were ten of us, Newton, I remember. _You’re_ forgetting Lord Nagi.’

‘Not there!’ says Lord Boyle, but something tics in his fat face, ‘your boy will tell you, only nine.’

‘... Treavor?’

The painting does look rather lopsided with four people to the right of the Emperor and five on the left, but Lord Boyle’s not lying.

‘Nine, Father.’

Father explodes with anger.

‘You’ve had him painted out, you old hack!’

‘I never!’

‘He was beside Brisby! I was there!’ Things are getting heated, but when Treavor tries to leave Lord Boyle grips the large collar of his coat.

‘It was out of respect for Euhorn,’ he admits.

‘Respect? You never liked Nagi, just admit it, especially since those rumours about you and his son –‘

‘HOW DARE YOU? The Emperor was poisoned by Serks, Pendleton! You know as well as I!’

‘Bullshit! Why would any Serkonan have reason to –‘

People are looking, but Lord Boyle still has his fingers tight into Treavor’s collar, inching closer to his throat. Lord Boyle may not be young and strong any more, but he’s definitely got ten stone on Treavor, who’s weathering the brunt of it on his _neck_. Vaguely, Treavor wonders if he will be throttled to death in the ballroom. He hopes not.

‘Daddy!’ says Lydia Boyle, and if at all possible, Lord Boyle’s grip on Treavor’s collar becomes more tense, pulling him upwards like a drowning man. Treavor wonders what his brothers will say at his funeral, and then Lord Boyle lets go, and he drops to the floor.

‘Alfred, your son appears to be having... some kind of fit. Is this usual?’

Father sighs deeply.

‘It’s not _unusual_.’

‘Lydia! You’d best take poor Terry outside for some air, then –‘

‘... my son’s name is Treavor, Newton.’

‘That’s what I said!’

‘I’m _blind_ , not deaf!’

Lydia Boyle tugs ineffectually at Treavor’s shoulder, not taking him outside at all. ‘Your father is a terribly angry man,’ she says, cocking her head thoughtfully.

‘Your father tried to kill me!’

‘Nonsense. If he’d been _trying_ , he’d have succeeded.’

Of the Boyle sisters, Lydia is the one who looks most like her mother, the decidedly plain older Lady Boyle – they have the same round faces and weak brows. Lydia’s still pretty, Treavor supposes, just that she pales in comparison with Esma’s fantastic arse and Waverly’s beautiful hair.

Waverly. Waverly is wonderful, and that reminds him – ‘Where’s Waverly?’

‘She’s sick,’ says Lydia, after a moment’s pause, ‘in bed. Very ill.’

That puts a damper on _everything_ , ‘does she need anyone to... read to her? Bring hot soup? I mean, I’ve had most diseases, so contagion isn’t an iss –‘

‘Very. Sick,’ says Lydia, ‘anyway, unless you want to stay in the ballroom with the old farts, the _real_ party’s in here.’

In the manor’s vast music room, Morgan and Custis are playing a duet on the piano. Lydia scoffs.

‘They’re not actually very good,’ she says, a little harshly, as they pass through the room toward the fireplace, ‘Morgan overuses the pedals to disguise his utter lack of delicacy and Custis is putting trills all over the place because his timing’s so poor. Still, it’s a show.’

Esma is leant up against the fireplace, wineglass in hand. Surveying the entire room, she looks more like an exasperated tutor to a classroom of schoolboys than a woman amongst her friends and contemporaries, but she snorts as she overhears Lydia.

‘Don’t be mean.’

‘I’m not being mean, they know it too. That’s why they’re doing it.’

‘Even so, not smart. Especially with little Treavor here –‘

‘I’m not little,’ Treavor says, and Esma smiles, bored.

‘Uh-huh. Where’s Waverly? That awful Brisby boy has been asking after her all evening.’

‘Sick,’ says Lydia, ‘in bed. If you’ve somehow forgotten how she was yesterday –‘

‘Of course, of course. Well, I sent Brisby off looking for her, so I’m sure he’ll come back soon, we can tell him,’ she looks up, slightly dazed, as Treavor’s brothers stand and switch places for the last couple of bars of music, ‘- Lydia, you should hop on there before they start again. There are only so many pieces for four hands, you know, they’ve played them all at least twice.’

The twins finish to a smattering of polite applause, and immediately hunt Esma down.

‘Thank you,’ Morgan says, plucking the glass from her hand, ‘for keeping my wine... warm. Disgusting.’ He downs it in a single gulp, ‘I hope you haven’t been _polluting_ our baby brother –‘

‘I’m not a baby!’

‘Quite so,’ says Custis, ‘quite so. Have you got any cigarettes for that case of yours, yet?’

Treavor hasn’t got any of his own cigarettes – in fact, he’s barely smoked at all, bar a couple of smouldering dog-ends from Father’s ashtray and a few of the fruity cigarettes that Waverly smokes, that she says all the ladies smoke, to keep them from turning to fat. He shrugs expansively, and Custis sighs and pulls his own silver cigarette case from his breast pocket, opening it and allowing Morgan and Esma and Treavor to take one each.

‘Ooh,’ says Esma, twirling it expertly between her fingers and ducking her head to sniff along it, ‘these are nice. Really nice - this isn’t Gristol stuff, is it?’

‘Pandyssian, coastal. The soil is alkaline, you know, really gives the plant –‘

‘Shut up, Custis,’ Morgan says, flicking his lighter open, ‘are you sure you want to waste one of them on Treavor? He won’t appreciate –‘

‘I smoke! I smoke all the time!’

‘Okay, okay,’ Morgan bends and lights each of the cigarettes in turn, Treavor’s last, and then he straightens back up, and looks suddenly alarmed, ‘fuck, look alive, it’s Brisby.’

‘Gentlemen, Esma.’

No-one greets him in return –

‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen Lady Waverly about, have you perchance –‘

‘She’s sick, Brisby, in bed.’

‘Oh. Did she – was there anything she needs from me?’

‘No, Timothy,’

‘No,’ Custis adds with a bark of laughter, ‘there was one thing. Timothy Brisby... she wanted something specific... oh yes, go drown in the canal,’

‘Huh,’ says Brisby, utterly unamused, and he tugs Treavor roughly by the wrist, ‘I need to speak with you, anyway,’ Brisby drags him from the room into the hallway, and he still hasn’t taken a single drag from his cigarette, so he does so now.

‘What did you need, Timothy?’

Timothy doesn’t reply, just keeps walking back toward the ballroom.

‘Timothy? Ow, let go of me, I –‘

‘Why’d you let them embarrass me?’

‘What? My brothers? I don’t really know what you expect from me, against them,’

Timothy turns around for a second and his eyes almost seem to be wet with unshed, frustrated tears. Treavor can hear his brothers inside his head even as he spies them – Brisby’s weak and pathetic and _awful_. Treavor takes another long drag on his cigarette – it is nice, just as Esma had said, and it only makes him cough a little, and like Waverly’s ladies cigarettes, it has a subtle floweriness about it that makes it all the more satisfying.

Timothy keeps walking.

‘Did you see the painting? Of the generals? Your father looked very suave. Maybe you should grow a moustache, Treavor.’

Treavor thinks that’s a marvellous idea, if he ever grows whiskers, and he hopes he will get some good ones. The twins have to shave nearly every day now, and they’re only four years older. Plus, Treavor has nine chest hairs, which he thinks is a good sign for this kind of thing (he _had_ had ten, but the tenth had gotten nearly a foot long so he’d plucked it off, hoping that it might encourage others to grow in its place, like the many-headed Hydra. At worst, the hair was absorbing the power of the others, so he’s glad it’s gone.) The banners of the Boyle estate are very black, very black indeed, feeding on the candlelight, getting bigger, getting blacker.

Timothy’s saying something else – does Treavor recognise his father in the painting, as if Treavor can’t tell when Timothy is a carbon copy of his father, who is a carbon copy of _his_ father, five Timothy Brisbys in total, all the same man. Treavor feels hot, and dizzy, and his shoulders hurt.

‘My shoulders hurt,’ he says, and then he falls onto his face –

-

\- and wakes up in the carriage, in Morgan’s lap.

‘Where would he even get opium, I mean really,’ Father is saying, ‘I told you to look after him, Morgan –‘

Morgan’s laughter is a deep rumble next to Treavor’s ears, ‘He was with Timothy Brisby, Father,’

‘It’s that poetry nonsense, is what it is, boys, poetry and opium,’ the carriage comes to a shuddering halt, and Treavor can hear Father banging about with his stick, ‘Morgan, you carry him in, he’s only little – that’s another thing, giving him a dose for a grown man! Unbelievable,’ says Father, ‘so embarrassing. At the Emperor’s memorial, I mean, eugh.’

Morgan does carry him in, but only as far as the foot of the stairs, where he’s unceremoniously deposited and then left in the dark and cold when the twins immediately go up to bed. Then, when he’s just accepting that he’s going to freeze to death in the hallway, not unlike The Little Girl Who Sold Whale Oil, he’s picked up in Wallace’s big strong arms, and taken up the stairs.

‘Wallace,’ he whispers as they ascend, ‘my shoulders really hurt! Custis gave me it, in a cigarette, Wallace.’

‘Yes,’ says Wallace, tired and calm and gentle, ‘I know,’

‘They made Father think it was about _poetry_ , Wallace,’

‘Yes, I know,’

‘Waverly wasn’t even there, Wallace!’

‘Best that she didn’t see you, then’

‘I guess,’ Wallace is very careful as he puts Treavor into his bed, removing the collar and cuffs of his shirt and putting them on the cabinet, ‘Wallace?’

Wallace doesn’t reply, just carefully straightens the books and vases on the sideboard, ‘you need a raise.’

‘Yes,’ Wallace says, ‘I know.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow i said I wouldn't take three months and I took three months, I said there'd be more waverly and more wallace and I lied this has not been a good update for anyone involved. I did it though, everyone party! Also I've planned everything out properly and if all goes well there should be another ~~ten chapters coming up. Jesus christ how did I do this. Feedback maybs? or whatever do not bother im??? than k for reading


	9. ix

‘At any rate,’ Treavor is saying, as he and Waverly ascend far too many steps in an apartment building her father owns, ‘it wasn’t _my_ opium. Custis blamed Brisby –‘

‘Hah! Good!’

‘- he didn’t even do _anything_!’

‘I don’t care. Brisby’s _vile_. Don’t talk to him.’

‘What, ever?’

‘Ever.’

Treavor sighs as Waverly pushes her way into some gentleman’s room, his balcony, up the rickety metal staircase (Tyvian style, though, very fashionable) onto his roof-garden. They’ve spent the whole morning in Dunwall Tower for the Empress’ coronation, and now they’ve found the best spot in the entire city to watch the parade come past, all the way down Rye Avenue, then around at the very end of the road and up Dockland Way, on the other side. Waverly is standing far too close to the edge of Mr Gregor’s roof, though.

‘Waverly! Get away from the edge!’

‘I can hear the trumpets,’ she says, and she’s right. The whole event is giving Treavor a weird amount of civic pride that he’s actually quite uncomfortable with – ‘besides,’ she continues, shuffling ever closer to the baluster, ‘my balance is formidable.’

To prove this, she delicately folds one leg beneath her like a bird, closes her eyes and swings her arms around like a Serkonan dancer.

‘Waverly! You’re making me queasy.’

‘Hah! You sure it’s not just the opium?’

‘That was _days_ ago!’

‘Daddy was furious,’ Waverly says with a shrug that bounces her hair up with her shoulders into a momentary golden halo, but she opens her eyes, at least.

‘It wasn’t my fault. Besides, I think he was in a bad mood. He was fighting with Father before all of that even happened.’

‘About Nagi in the painting. Lydia told me. That was bad form.’

‘Bad form? It was bad form to have a man painted out over a petty grudge!’

‘No, nononono,’ Waverly says, and she suddenly looks terrified, ‘you mustn’t say that to Daddy, not ever. It’s a serious thing.’

‘I fail to see h –‘ Waverly has clapped her hand furiously over his mouth – it’s very dry.

‘No, no no no,’ she says, ‘it was a terrible business. Daddy is... not tolerant of Serks, that’s true, but it was, it was a horrible thing, Treavor. We nearly lost everything over that damn liar and –‘ she snaps her head up, removes her hand from Treavor’s face.

‘The parade is coming!’ Waverly runs back to her old spot and swings her entire upper body over the balcony, looking down into the street. The parade is beautiful, some painted carriages decked out with sparklers, some with dancers and musicians. The Empress is at the centre of it all, sitting in a silk-upholstered litter carried by four men. Lord Attano walks behind it in full regalia, covered in shiny medals and golden braids.

‘… wow,’ says Waverly, starry-eyed in the sunlight, ‘this is – it’s History, you know, Treavor.’

‘History?’

‘Yeah,’ she says, eyes never leaving the parade, ‘I mean, in the future, they’ll write about this, but we were here. We’re _seeing_ it.’

‘Yeah,’ Treavor agrees, even as his gaze flickers between the ongoing History and Waverly’s hair blowing in the breeze.

Waverly’s still transfixed, ‘she’s beautiful, too.’

‘Huh?’

‘The Empress. She’s the youngest in – in so long, and she’s beautiful,’ she finally tears her eyes from the procession, fisting a hand in the back of her hair, sweeping and collecting her fringe with the other hand in a weak imitation of the Empress’ style, ‘her hair must be so long, to go up so high.’

‘I suppose,’ Treavor doesn’t know much about hair except that he was completely right about long hair for men coming into fashion, and now even Custis’ curls past his ears, not that anyone will credit it to him but eugh, he does try.

‘Are you going to the re-opening of parliament this evening?’ he asks once she’s back staring over the balcony, and she shakes her head.

‘Mummy and Daddy are, but there’s only two invites for each family. Who are you going with?’

‘Morgan,’ he says, and she laughs lightly to herself, and he knows that _she_ knows that he’s only going to warm a seat, because Father hasn’t gotten out of bed since the memorial, and Custis has a meeting with The Mint this evening, who want to make new silver coins with new Pendleton silver, and Morgan and Treavor are all that’s left.

Still, as things go, Treavor and Morgan aren’t too bad a pair of Pendletons. Morgan’s _amiable_ in a way that Custis can’t keep up for more than an hour at a time, and he’s only a touch less refined. In the carriage, Morgan leans forward conspiratorially and gives Treavor hints that are only a little bit contradictory –

‘Don’t lie. Don’t smile too much. Don’t look dour. Don’t check your watch. Don’t stand too close to Attano,’ Morgan ticks them off on his fingers, ‘don’t stand too _far_ from Attano. Agree with the Spymaster unless it’s a set-up for _someone else_ to agree to. Don’t be stupid. Definitely don’t be too smart. Don’t act, look, or speak Serkonan. Don’t ever, ever wear a hat.’

‘Is that it?’

‘... I think that’s it. What Father told me, anyway.’

‘Huh,’ says Treavor, and he puts a hand in the back of his hair to fluff it up a bit, make it look a bit less limp compared to the impressive sweep of Morgan’s hair. Sweeping hair makes him think of Waverly, and Waverly makes him think of –

‘Morgan.’

Morgan tilts his head in recognition, peering out the window of the carriage.

‘What’s the deal with Lord Boyle and the Serks?’

‘Oh,’ says Morgan, springing into position with elbows on knees and chin on fists, ‘alright, this is a good story, okay, uh, I don’t know it all, but, okay, right, let’s go,’ Morgan’s shaking his head like a horse about to race – he looks utterly ridiculous, but Treavor gets the feeling he’s been wanting to share this story for _years_.

‘After the war, all the generals kept in touch, and, I guess, most of them lived in Dunwall so that was easy enough – except for Lord Nagi, because he... he basically owned most of Serkonos, I think. He’s a Baron or a Lord Prince or somesuch. This was all before my time, you know.’

‘Of course.’

‘So, Nagi goes back to Serkonos, and he’s also got a son. Nagi’s... he’s not dead, actually, but he’s older even than Father, I think. Whatever. Nagi’s son at the time was about - about my age, twenty or so. He’s called Karol –‘

‘- that’s a Tyvian name, not a Serk one!’

‘- and Treavor’s a _farmer’s_ name!’

‘It’s not!’ he says, and then pauses, because, actually, Trevor is rather a farmer’s name. ‘Not with an A, it’s not.’

‘- I don’t care, I didn’t name him. His mother was Tyvian, perhaps? I forget, I don’t care. The point is that Lord Boyle goes to Lord Nagi’s Serkonan estate at some point, about when Lydia was born, I think, and when he comes back he’s sending correspondence to Old Nagi _and_ Young Nagi.’

‘Oh,’ says Treavor, not really understanding the significance but going with the pauses and inflections in Morgan’s story just as Waverly goes with those in his.

‘And at some point, Nagi’s mother – Karol’s mother – she reads one of Lord Boyle’s letters to her son, and she thinks they’re... intimate.’

‘Intimate.’

‘Intimate on the side of, well, really not on. So, she writes Lord Boyle a letter, because, I suppose she thinks he’s... polluting her son, and Lord Boyle writes one back saying that, you know, it’s a Serk thing, greet a man by kissing him on the face, you know?

‘She doesn’t take it well, anyway, and – I’m not sure here, I think she sends a letter to the Serk Spymaster, or whatever they have, because, you know, it’s illegal there.’

‘It?’

‘... you know, Treavor,’ Morgan grimaces and looks away as he says the word, despite the fact that this is what the whole story’s really about, ‘acts of Inversion.’

‘Oh.’

‘And some Serk lawmen come and they try to take Boyle to one of their prisons, and, I guess, they’re trying to use the fact that he and Lady Boyle haven’t been _intimate_ after Lydia as proof of his... relationship with Karol, they stop him having access to his money –‘

‘How did they fix it?’

Morgan lets out a heavy breath as he’s forced from his list of evidence, ‘I don’t know. Burrows helped him out, I think, made some loophole about Gristol citizens not being tried under Serk law, Waverly was born, that took the edge off – he got some men from the newspapers killed –‘

‘He got them killed?!’

‘... they died. Unhappily. Come on, Treavor. Rich people get people killed all the time. We could get someone killed if you like. Do you want someone killed? Brisby? I could probably get Brisby killed for you.’

Morgan isn’t a good brother. To be a good brother, Morgan would have to... love him, or something. Definitely not hit him, or use him for target practise or try to trample him on a horse or force-feed him fruits that he’s allergic to – but he’s the best brother Treavor has. Treavor can imagine Custis on the subject of hit-men – ‘I could get you killed if I like. Do you want to be killed? Soon? I could definitely get you killed by the end of the week.’

‘I don’t want Brisby killed. He’s – well he’s not my _friend_ but –‘

‘Eh,’ says Morgan, and the carriage jolts to a halt outside the Parliament buildings. It’s early evening, and the wind is cold and fresh, and sunset was maybe an hour ago. Morgan slides out of the carriage and brushes himself down in the lamplight, hooks his arm through Treavor’s so they look more like gentlemen and less like boys who’ve been talking about assassination.

‘This isn’t what Parliament’s usually like,’ Morgan whispers as he takes a champagne flute from a girl in the hallway toward the chamber, ‘otherwise Father would come much more often. Normally it’s bring-your-own-booze.’

The only person actually sitting in the chamber is the Speaker, way up on his tall chair, but he’s shouting like a rowdy boy, and the Empress, standing near the legs of the monstrosity, looks painfully calm, as though she’s ignoring everything. Attano, silent at her back, glares at the immature, drunken nobility surrounding him, dark eyes piercing a warning through everyone entering – Morgan’s arm twitches in Treavor’s as he stares across the chamber – ‘Attano gives me the creeps. Right, we have to greet the Empress from our side – that’s facing the box’s latch, okay? Other side is the opposition, the Hamms, don’t go there, even by accident, you’ll never live it down.’

‘Okay,’ says Treavor, as they approach the Empress, ‘greet her how?’ and Morgan steps forward into a bow before her and says, ‘Your Majesty,’ turns back to Treavor and gives him a light shove. ‘Just be polite.’

Treavor is polite, and gives the best bow that he’s practised with Waverly when they talk about the royal courts.

Morgan sighs, violently, and goes to apologise to Jessamine – and Treavor learns that what he had done was a _curtsey_ , so, terribly inappropriate, but Jessamine smiles and gives a musical little laugh.

‘I got it wrong the first time, too,’ she says, and she’s curiously soft-spoken and yes, Waverly was right, beautiful, ‘pleased to meet you, Lord Pendleton. My father spoke very highly of yours – I’m sure you’ll be a magnificent addition to my Parliament,’ and then, in a lower voice, so Morgan can’t hear her, ‘which of your brothers is that?’

Attano growls from behind her – ‘I told you, it’s Morgan, I know his face.’

‘They have the _same_ face, Corvo!’ she snaps, playfully annoyed. It’s not really proper.

‘Uh, C- Lord Attano is right, Your Majesty.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, straightening and giving Attano a mock glare, ‘it’s disconcerting to see them separated’ and she turns to receive greetings from the opposition side. Treavor goes back to Morgan, who’s scanning the crowd with an expression of quiet contemplation.

‘Normally there’s a debate, but, uh,’ he shrugs, ‘you go sit down, head for a middle bench if you’re with me, or Custis or Father, but if there’s more of us then go to a back bench, so you don’t take up too much room. The Speaker gives the topic, and then the Prime Minister gives an outline, and then – dammit, it’s easier to explain when it’s actually happening. Father was absolutely _insistent_ that I tell you all about it _today_ , fucking unbelievable, you know.’

‘... I suppose.’

‘The real important stuff here is schmoozing,’ Morgan sings the word, his voice going deeper and deeper as he says it, ‘you can do that, right? You’re friends with Waverly Boyle, after all.’

Treavor is friends with Waverly Boyle, though, at least to begin with, that was to do with an awful lot of pity and schadenfreude. Actually, though – let Treavor toot his own trumpet, sing his own song, hammer his own harpsichord – Treavor’s a schmoozer of some skill, really. Waverly doesn’t keep friends she doesn’t care for, and Treavor’s brothers would have killed him years ago if he hadn’t been able to keep them sweet.

‘Who shall I schmooze with?’ Treavor asks, all sudden boyish confidence, puffing his chest and straightening his shoulders.

‘... Lord Burrows?’

‘Noooooo,’ says Treavor, and Morgan says ‘Yesssssssss.’

‘He’s a filthy old fop, just like you. Don’t you like his coat?’

‘Well, yes...’

‘Go tell him you like his coat! Name-drop where you got _your_ coat -’

‘Morgan! It’s regalia! I can’t tell him I like his regalia!’ not unless he wants the same infamy as Lord Boyle’s young _Karol_ , anyway –

‘It’s not regalia,’ Morgan’s hissing, ‘look at Attano!’

They both look at Attano, proud and dark in his usual uniform, not the sparkling best he wore that morning.

‘Attano’s not the be-all and end-all, Morgan.’

‘Attano’s getting it right. Attano can’t afford to get it wrong. A Serk, and one of his Colour,’ colour definitely with a capital C – it makes all the difference that Trevor with an A makes – a foreigner, the _wrong kind_ of foreigner, Attano is tanned brown like a farmhand during Harvest by virtue of his birth, colour with a capital C.

‘Oh,’ says Treavor, creepingly ashamed, ‘Burrows has golden epaulettes on, though.’

‘He’s a filthy. Old. Fop,’ Morgan says, and gives him a very – _very_ – firm shove in Burrows’ direction, which of course sends Treavor reeling directly into the man, very nearly bowling the both of them over – Morgan will later recall this story with _so much_ pleasure – but Treavor does manage to get a hold of himself and very – _very_ – politely compliment Lord Burrows’ coat.

Really, it’s the start of a beautiful friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello here it is, I'm so sorry there's no Wallace here at all I feel like a fraud. Let's talk about racism and homophobia in gristol, shall we, i really want to discuss it, eugh.
> 
> Also yes, here's my own convoluted explaination for why the Young Prince of Tyvia exists, and why everyone completely ignores that the character in it is Lord Bayle, and not Lord Boyle hahaha - Boyle couldn't get it taken out of print because saying it was slander was accepting that it was about him and it wASN'T ABOUT HIM lmao


	10. x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to Dylan Moran, Kevin Cecil & Andy Riley for the stolen ~~poem~~.

Waverly has brought her letters to Parliament today, and on the back bench next to Treavor she scribbles her replies like the protagonists in his boyhood books scribbled their homework early in the morning when they didn’t want a beating.

‘Who are you writing to?’ Treavor asks her as she signs her name and moves onto the next envelope.

‘My penpals, my cousins and – look, this came today, with some flowers. I get these a lot,’ she says, ‘I don’t know who sends them,’ and there’s a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth as she intones the little poem Treavor wrote her last week –

‘Think of a bee,  
You are its knees,   
You waft through me like a summer’s breeze   
\- T’

Treavor raises his eyebrows and looks for some clue as to her reaction. He’s been sending these for over two years now, and she’s never mentioned them before. Not so good.

‘Sounds like a weirdo to me.’

‘Hah!’ says Waverly, ‘Sorry to say you were my main suspect, poetry man.’

‘I don’t write poems like that. I write poems about, you know, the sea and things. Dappled light through trees.’

‘... sounds boring.’

‘Well, it’s not. I’m having a pamphlet published.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Alois Company are printing it next month.’

‘Huh,’ says Waverly, ‘I wonder who T is then?’

‘Timothy Brisby?’

‘He couldn’t even come up with a poem as bad as this, no. Plus, he sends me letters signed with his name, anyway. Disgusting.’

‘Lord Thames?’

Waverly chokes back a laugh. She’s in a good mood today, playful, and she’s already made three very good points in this debate, all whilst writing her correspondence. ‘Imagine, if the _Prime Minister_ was sending me terrible love poems.’

‘You never know. His wife is a terribly boring old tart.’

‘Treavor!’ Waverly says, happily scandalised, and she slaps his shoulder weakly with one slim hand, ‘you’re awful now you talk to men.’

‘I always thought it was talking to you that made me awful.’

‘You’re vile,’ she says, ‘are you coming to Esma’s birthday party? You never replied to her invite. She’s quite upset.’

‘I might be busy.’

‘Bullshit! I can’t believe you still haven’t gotten a job.’

‘Morgan and Custis are planning something awful to get me in trouble with your father. I wish she hadn’t invited them.’

‘Oh but we like your brothers, Treavor. They’re terribly good fun.’

‘They’re also just terrible.’

‘I do wish you’d lighten up,’ she says, and scribbles the introduction to another letter.

‘I’m normally the one telling you to lighten up,’ Treavor replies, taking her letter-opener and cleaning under his nails with it, but she shakes her head.

‘No you’re not, you’re always telling me to _calm down_ , which isn’t the same thing at all. I had a fantastic time watching the dogs at that pub, by the way. You would have liked it.’

‘If I fancied seeing mad animals killing each other, I’d go hunting with my brothers more often.’

‘Oh but they don’t kill one another, Treavor, that’s the whole point. They’re very well-trained. I went with Lydia’s chambermaid, Maisie, anyway. She’s much more fun than you.’

‘Huh,’ says Treavor, and pretends not to be hurt. Waverly snatches her letter-opener back, bops him on the head with it.

‘Do you think the Empress is knocked up, or just turning to fat? I can’t tell,’ she squints across the benches to their ruler, who looks the same as always to Treavor,

‘You know she doesn’t smoke. Maybe that’s why, though you think that if she was just fat she’d get a better corset. My cousin is her corset-maker, actually.’

As if prompted by the thought, Waverly takes out her own box of cigarettes, and steals Treavor’s lighter from his coat-pocket, and he in turn steals one of her cigarettes.

‘Who do you suppose did the deed, then,’ she asks with a smile, and Treavor is quick to answer –

‘Attano.’

‘No,’ says Waverly, ‘Don’t be obscene, Attano is much too proper for that. He’d never _soil_ his lady. I bet it was that Tyvian emissary a few months back, you remember, the chap with the monocle.’

‘The _Empress_ is much too proper for that. Attano’s the only man she’d ever let close enough –‘

‘How do you know that she and the emissary weren’t friends before? Lovers by mail?’ she sighs dramatically, ‘that’s so romantic.’

‘It’s not romantic,’ Treavor says irritably, ‘I saw him at the Golden Cat that week –‘

‘- Sampling Dunwall’s finest –‘

‘Waverly, that’s _disgusting_ –‘

‘You were the one in the whorehouse, Treavor, not me. You’re coming to our party, okay?’

‘Fine,’ says Treavor, though in the end he doesn’t, in fact no-one does, because Waverly’s mother suffers a heart attack or a stroke or a combination of the two, and ends up on her death-bed.

Treavor finds it very hard to care about all of this, if he’s honest, which he is only around Wallace. He fakes tears for Waverly, who’s in full weeds and very nearly ruined, and brings her father a basket of fruits and flowers from the Pandyssian Continent (on Morgan’s advice, though he’ll never admit it. The family ships have been returning from Pandyssia with alarming frequency since Custis took officially-unofficial rule of the company.) When he gets home that evening, he asks Wallace if it would be terribly improper to propose to Waverly while her mother is dying.

‘Yes!’ says Wallace, and it’s the first time in, what, thirteen years that he’s ever raised his voice to Treavor.

‘I don’t mean a big formal thing, just, you know, offering a shoulder to cry on, a home without bad memories –‘

‘No.’

‘What about after she –‘

‘No!’

Treavor pouts and sits down heavily in his window seat, ‘She read me one of my poems the other day, and she laughed at it.’

‘Was it the one about the bees?’

Treavor makes a tiny little noise of possible assent.

‘Huh?’

‘... yes.’

‘I did warn you about that one.’

‘It was sweet!’

‘Yes,’ says Wallace, with great effort, and lays Treavor’s collars in their drawer like precious treasures, moves on to polish the boxful of brooches and cravat-pins in the drawer below.

‘Waverly has no taste, at any rate, Wallace. You know she reads those Morley Romances, the ones written by women, you know, frightful,’ he pauses for breath and then, ‘and she keeps making fun of me for that one time with the opium, which was years ago, Wallace, she keeps telling people I take it all the time –‘

Wallace hums non-committedly, and then he says, ‘Why do you want to marry her, then?’

‘Well,’ says Treavor, but, fuck, he has to think about it, ‘she’s my best friend! Also, she’s beautiful.’

‘Hm,’ says Wallace, pointedly.

‘Also I don’t want to marry a fucking – a fucking merchant’s daughter! Or – or a nice girl whose father owns a factory or to become a _cobbler_ for Anna, Wallace! And I don’t want to die without a wife, and only children who are bastards and – Oh Wallace, I think I’m going to faint.’

Treavor hasn’t had a fit – a proper fit, like the ones he used to get after the vipers – since he was barely fifteen, and he’s not about to start now. At least, that’s what he thinks to himself before he blacks out, so that’s admirable. He’s also quite adamant that he _didn’t_ have a fit once he comes to.

‘That doesn’t mean I _don’t_ want the laudanum, Wallace you great dolt, give me that.’

There’s no-one else in the room, so he can’t have been out for too long, or have made too much noise, which is good.

‘Laudanum’s made of opium, you know.’

‘I need it for my asthma.’

Treavor doesn’t really have asthma, but he does get woozy and sweaty climbing stairs sometimes, and Lady Angelica used to use it as an excuse when he didn’t join in with summertime party cricket, or horse race as seriously as Morgan. Treavor remembers sitting with Angelica and the ladies during those summer parties, watching his brothers and other boys and gentlemen in their cricket whites. Just once, one of Angelica’s friends had asked why he wasn’t out there with them, and Angelica had put a soft hand on his arm with a horrible hard expression and said, ‘Poor boy takes after his Mother,’ and Treavor still doesn’t know what that means.

‘Besides,’ Treavor says, because Wallace is _stupid_ , ‘laudanum is an _opiate_ , not opium.’

‘Opiate means made from opium.’

'You can fuck off, Wallace. It's different when it's medicinal, okay?'

'Hm,' says Wallace and he's getting really good at this quietly judging thing, which is really not something Treavor wants from a manservant.

Wallace judges, but he never stops helping. Three days later, Treavor goes to Boyle Manor to get Waverly to go on a walk with him, and Wallace packs his picnic without even scowling.

Waverly hasn’t left her mother’s bedside in a week, and she looks... like she always does. Maybe a little pale, but in all honestly it’s just her deadened expression that transforms her entirely, a sudden realisation that Waverly always looks tired and thin and twitchy, disguising it with wicked humour and quick comebacks. Even Lord Boyle doesn’t mind that it’s Treavor taking her out of the house, which might be a bad thing, but she smiles when she sees him and her teeth and her eyes and her hair in the sunlight, fuck.

‘I brought a picnic. I thought we could - could go along the canal, you know.’

Waverly laughs - barely, but she laughs and it’s Treavor’s favourite sound in the world. Unlike their trip on Treavor’s fourteenth birthday, it only takes a few minutes to get from the canal by Boyle Manor into the countryside, and Treavor sits down, swinging his legs over the lock, and extracts a few tangled feet of embroidery thread from his pocket, and a small amount of luncheon meat, wrapped in gauze, from the picnic basket - he had tried for symmetry but Wallace had been utterly adamant that _you can’t put sweaty meat in your pocket so don’t you even dare!_

Waverly laughs and laughs and _laughs_.

‘Just like when we were kids!’ she says, and sits down next to him with an enthusiasm that wasn’t there before.

Treavor has very carefully prepared and wrapped this thin slice of ham, and he ties a very good knot around it before feeding it through his fingers and down into the canal. From here he’s not really sure about any of this crab business, Waverly’s the one who read a book about it, and after a few lackluster twitches of the string she plucks it from his fingers and holds it very carefully out in front of her.

‘I really don’t want Mummy to die, Treavor,’ she says, eyes on the line, and then before he can think of a reply she segues straight into asking ‘Do you remember how many crabs we had? Outsider’s eyes, that was... I’d never had so much fun before, you know?’

She’s got a little smile on her face again, shiny eye-teeth peeking out from between her lovely lips, ‘I was so looking forward to putting them in Custis’ bed.’

‘Wallace put some of the pincers in his pillowcase.’

‘Wallace did? I knew I liked that man. What happened to the rest of the crabs, do you think?’

‘The servants ate them.’

‘Eugh! And your father let them? Did they get sick? That’s filthy, I - hang on, I think I’ve caught one.’

Waverly pulls the thread out of the canal ever so delicately and there is a little river crab at the end of it, perched defensively on its prize, which seems to glitter ominously.

‘Treavor,’ says Waverly, calm and terror and fury, ‘is this a fucking joke?’ and the crab falls off of the silver engagement band wrapped in ham.

It’s not a fucking joke. Treavor’s grin goes from hopeful to fearful to pained - ‘I - Waverly, I didn’t do this to upset you, I thought that -’

‘No you didn’t, Treavor! You didn’t think at _all_ ,’ She’s risen to her feet now, the very image of a goddess blowing a ship off course, hair billowing in the breeze, expanding like a threatened cat, ‘I told you - I told you _two years ago_ that it wouldn’t happen, and even if I _wanted_ to, fuck, you horrible - fucking - dick-brained - you’re supposed to be my friend, Treavor!’

‘No - Waverly, I am your friend. You are my friend -’

‘And if my _friend_ can’t respect me, then? Then what, Treavor? I think you’re spending time with me because you care about me, about how I feel, and you - you - fucking -’ she balls her hands into fists and pulls down against imaginary chains, ‘fuck, you’re so -’

‘Waverly - I’m sorry, I -’

‘Walk me home,’ says Waverly, and Treavor can almost see her push her anger together in a condensed pit in her chest, can feel the pressure of it all around them, everywhere but her voice.

‘Walk me home,’ she says, ‘and don’t even - don’t even speak to me again until you’ve worked out what you’ve done wrong.’

‘I -’

‘No! Don’t speak to me. Walk me home. I won’t tell Daddy, that’s my word, that’s more than you deserve, Treavor.’

And Treavor walks Waverly back to Boyle manor in deafening, suffocating silence, and then he goes to cry in his bed for a long, long time.

A few miles away, a little brown crab at the bottom of the canal skitters over a silver engagement ring, and doesn’t feel a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yELLS this was what was supposed to happen but not in this time or place and im a bit????? about it, who knows, a mystery, pls tell me what you think im terribly insecure incase u hadnt already noticed xx


	11. xi

Waverly is very sick after her mother dies. Treavor doesn’t know the details, but there’s a nervous collapse outside a jewellers and she goes for a seaside cure somewhere along the south coast. Serkonos would probably be better, Treavor recons, because the air is warmer and dryer out there – he’s only been once, for a seaside cure of his own; the only thing more embarrassing for Lady Angelica than a weird stepson was a weird, _sickly_ stepson, and young Treavor couldn’t help but be both.

Either way, he doesn’t see her. The late Lady Boyle’s funeral is beautiful and Treavor is well-prepared to apologise then, though he still hasn’t truly understood his error, but Waverly and her sisters are dressed identically with dark veils over their faces, their clothes tailored and corseted in order to make them indistinguishable, and he daren’t approach the wrong girl.

After that she’s gone, for months, and Treavor is _terribly_ depressed. No-one buys his poetry pamphlet, and he ends up with so many spare copies of it he’s forced to _give it away_ to people at Parliament. People are nice about, sure, but it all feels so hollow and pointless when the beauty that inspired it isn’t there.

He says so much to Father, after a Parliament session, when they are both home and really rather drunk at midday, and Father snorts into his wineglass.

‘I can’t believe I raised a son so _wet_ ,’ he says in the same voice of unsurprised exasperation he had used when Treavor had lit up a _little girl’s_ cigarette in the carriage, and taken a detour in order to pick up a new corset from Cousin Anna. At least he’s forgotten about disowning him.

‘You’ve been in love before, Father.’

‘I was never so _fruity_ about it, though! My first girl, when I was your age - I never did any of this poetry _shit_ , just good old-fashioned dancing and kissing and courting.’

‘Well, if it was old-fashioned sixty years ago, imagine -’

‘Not sixty years - fif -’ he pauses slightly, ticking up the numbers in his mind, ‘fifty-eight. You don’t see your brothers doing all this.’

‘They’re _philistines_.’

That makes Father laugh - an odd, brittle noise that Treavor has never heard before, rough like a sob.

‘You are so like your mother.’

‘and my brothers are like you?’

‘Morgan and Custis are like _my_ brother,’ Father says with a sigh and the conversation dies entirely.

Edmund Pendleton had disappeared just before his daughter Anna was born. He’d gone out for a ride and never returned, though they found his spooked horse wandering the countryside on its own, months later. He had been the spare to Father’s heir, twenty years Father’s junior. He had, by all accounts, been rather bitter about it.

Father, for reasons best known to himself, had acted the spare himself. Twenty-five years in the army, he’d married Mother when he was very nearly fifty. Mother was a _child_ in comparison, Treavor’s sure.

Treavor misses Waverly terribly. He can’t gossip about how people look with a blind man nearly four times his age, who needs a drink to keep him upright. Father just makes Treavor _sad_ , as though he’s seeing his own miserable future in a magician’s mirror. If they drink, and they do drink - nearly every day they spend together, and Treavor has finally learnt not to match pace with him, not having the stomach for spirits before midday - Father might loosen up and share a story, a pearl of wisdom, historical insight, but more often than not Father just spends hours listening to the fire until Treavor gets the wine sickness and has to leave to throw up.

‘You’re a mess,’ Wallace says, not unkindly, as he heats water for Treavor’s evening bath in a great pan over the fire.

‘I’m _heartbroken_ ,’ Treavor whines, sitting on the floor in what he hopes is the very figure of despair, ‘Waverly is the light of my life.’

‘You should write a poem about it,’ Wallace suggests, ‘you’ll get ill sitting on the floor like that.’

Treavor groans, slumping further in response to Wallace’s stupidity, ‘I’m not going to be a poet anymore, Wallace. No-one bought my pamphlet.’

‘Ah. I thought you rather liked poetry.’

‘ _No-one_ bought my pamphlet,’ Treavor repeats, giving up and just laying down - utterly undignified - ‘Do you suppose Waverly will be back this week? She said I couldn’t speak to her until I worked out what I did wrong.’

‘And?’

‘I think I’ve worked it out.’

‘Really?’

‘I didn’t ask her father.’

‘No,’ says Wallace, carefully picking up the heavy pan and decanting it into the tub, ‘that’s not it.’

‘Augh! If you’re the great… _knower of women_ , Wallace, a hand perhaps?’

Wallace keeps his eyes on the swirling water in the tub - ‘I expect her anger stems from the fact that she has told you once before that you cannot be wed. She may already be promised to a gentleman, and in asking her, you disregarded what she had told you before. Women do not change on such subjects.’

‘Waverly changes on _every_ subject. It’s one of her charms.’

‘Lady Boyle is not entirely ladylike,’ Wallace says coldly, ‘but I guarantee she is in this regard.’

Treavor springs to his feet with sudden and surprising energy - ‘so I should apologise for ignoring her warning of old, and expecting to change her mind with a slightly twee but utterly charming declaration of love?’

‘Perhaps not in so many words, my lord,’ says Wallace, but he falls on deaf ears.

‘Yes! I’ll say, “Waverly! I understand your anger at my twee but charming proposal! I was… I was _ignorant_ of your warning of old, and disregarded your feelings in exchange for my own! I am so dreadfully sorry, and _humbly_ beg your forgiveness!” that’s good, Wallace, that’s excellent!’

‘...yes,’ says Wallace, just managing to catch the high collar that Treavor flings at him.

‘Do I have fresh shirts for this week? I’ll need a fresh shirt for when I see her. Is my mauve suit clean? I’ll be a changed man - charming - more charming, suave, sophisticated, and then she will want to marry me!’

Wallace supposes that you don’t have to understand why you’re apologising to apologise.

-

Waverly reappears at parliament a week later, when Treavor has very nearly exhausted his fresh shirts. Lord Boyle is with her, hand in hers, looking old and dazed and awful, and Treavor almost knocks over his own father in his rush to meet them.

‘Waverly!’

Waverly is beautiful and cold and her hair has brightened from the coastal sunlight.

‘... Treavor.’

‘I understand your anger at my twee but charming proposal!’

That startles her, and she makes darting eyes between Treavor and her father, almost panicked.

‘- Treavor -’

‘I was ignorant of your warning of old, and disregarded your feelings in exchange for my own!’

‘- _Treavor_ -’

‘I am so dreadfully sorry, and humbly beg your forgiveness!’

‘... are you done?’

‘I’m done.’

‘and how much of that did Wallace tell you to say?’

‘Almost none.’

Waverly sighs.

‘Then I forgive you,’ - Treavor grins maddeningly - ‘superficially and in words only, and a secret hate will burn forever in my heart.’

‘Okay.’

‘You have the lowest standards for friendship, Treavor,’ Waverly presses a kiss to her father’s cheek and heads toward her bench.

‘As do you.’

‘Everyone is so _boring_ , Treavor. I met a young man at the beach and he was so _dull_ , he was _so_ dull. I had to drink whey, at the beach, did you know that? And oats, like a horse.’

‘I had to eat raw liver for my seaside cure.’

‘Eugh,’ Waverly says, and seems to twitch involuntarily, ‘I didn’t have to eat liver. Outsider’s eyes though, I was so bored, and Daddy was so overbearing - I’m still horribly angry at you, Treavor, but I need to escape him, I swear - the only reason you’re any fun is that you’re a _Medical Idiot_ -’

‘I am not!’

‘You are very nearly,’ says Waverly, and like an Idiot, Treavor sits there and listens to her.

-

Lord Boyle keels over during a parliamentary debate just a week later, and Waverly screams and then doesn’t stop crying.

Father seems rather pleased with himself for all of five minutes, and then he starts crying too. It’s awful, embarrassing, and they need six men to lift the stretcher from the chamber, a hundred nobles staring in dumb and useless shock at the thin line between life and the Void.

Father gets so drunk he can’t go to the funeral - The Empress is there, observing it all coolly, definitely heavily pregnant by now, and Treavor can’t even share a knowing look with Waverly, who makes the most terrible sounds over the Overseers’ prayers and their boxes, bundled into her sisters’ arms like a child.

‘Leave her be,’ says Lydia, just before Waverly goes to bed, ‘she doesn’t want to speak to you.’

‘Leave her be,’ says Esma, after she takes Waverly to her room, ‘she won’t speak to you.’

‘Leave her be,’ says Custis, hand around his throat in a hallway bathroom after he catches Treavor outside Waverly’s bedroom. He presses him into the wall with surprising strength, ‘Everyone will talk about you.’

After much deliberation, Treavor leaves her be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not great, wow what a filler chapter. this story is almost two years old and ive barely written anything. next chapter some things should happen??? but whatever i just needed to post something. treavor pendleton is not a nice person, do not forget that


	12. xii

Waverly hasn’t come to Parliament in weeks. She’s been strange for a long while - more so than usual, and even the Empress having a suspiciously dark-eyed baby hadn’t cheered her up for more than a few days. Months go by without word, sometimes, and when it does come it’s frantic and odd - masked men coming by carriage to tell him to meet her in Draper’s, annotated book pages slipped under the servant’s entrance, addressed ‘to T, from your bee’. Her sisters won’t shed any light on the situation, and when he meets her face-to-face she’s all smiles and funny excuses, none of the cryptic desperation he gathers from her little notes. Treavor hasn’t seen her since the end of Rain, and it’s now well into Darkness.

So, when a beautiful piece of mail comes for _Treavor_ with the Boyle seal on it, on the morning of Morgan and Custis’ twenty-fourth birthday, something like pleasure curls deep in Treavor’s chest.

His brothers won’t put up with that. Morgan already has the envelope, twirling it between his fingers as he eats his eggs (noisily).

‘What’s this? Boyles? Treavor, what the fuck? It’s my birthday -’

‘Our birthday’

‘- _our_ birthday,’ he flings it - edge on, painfully fast - at Treavor’s forehead, and then raises a fist in mock agitation to the window - ‘Our birthday, Esma, you daft cow!’

‘It’s probably about Waverly’s birthday party,’ says Treavor, sullenly. He hates eggs - and as a special birthday treat for the twins they appear to have been seasoned suspiciously. Balsam of Saggunto, if his itchy mouth is anything to go by, brilliant.

‘Whatever,’ says Custis - he’s lost interest in this path of conversation already, jotting notes on his ledger with his right hand, fork in left for gesturing, ‘do eat your eggs, baby brother. They’re really very good.’

‘They disagree with me.’

‘A shame,’ says Custis, dispassionately. Eyes on his numbers, he still smirks at the click of Treavor’s lighter and the first billow of perfumed smoke. ‘Don’t ash on the table, you peasant.’

‘Hah!’ says Morgan, ‘peasant!’ and opens his own mail with the butter-knife.

Under the table, away from his brothers’ eyes, Treavor carefully splits the hard wax seal with his thumbnail, and shuffles the heavy card stock out of the envelope. It is folded in four, from the bottom up, and the entire first quarter of the note is a beautiful gold-foil filigree with a star in the centre.

The second fold offers little, too. It says,

_Dearest Treavor, Lord Pendleton_

_Ladies Esma and Lydia Boyle_

_invite you as an honoured guest_

Treavor’s never been an honoured guest before. When he unfolds the rest of the invite, he rather wishes he wasn’t to be.

_to the wedding of_

_Mr Herman Jeremiah Cain_

_and_

_Lady Waverly Alice Florence Boyle_

Treavor’s had a lot of nightmares about things like this. He must be making a noise because his brothers are _looking_ at him, almost concern flickering in their gazes.

‘I told you he’s allergic to Balsam of Saggunto,’ says Morgan, taking Treavor’s eggs for his own, ‘he fucking ashed on them.’

‘I think he’s having a fit.’

‘From the Balsam?’

‘I - no,’ Custis has Waverly’s invite between two manicured fingers, and his laugh is like the call of a wild animal, ‘Treavor’s favourite _slut_ is going to marry old Jerry Cain.’

‘Hah!’ says Morgan, taking Treavor’s limp right hand roughly by the wrist and slapping his cigarette back into his mouth, ‘suck on that a bit, you’ll feel better.’

‘They want you to write a poem for the official invites. Are you listening to me?’

‘Fuck, Jerry Cain. Old Jerry? Not Tommy Jerry, are you sure?’

‘ _Herman_ Jerry.’

‘Fuck,’ Morgan turns back to his eggs, ‘he’s been angling for a title for years. They must be desperate to be rid of her -’

‘Don’t you dare say something like that about Waverly!’

‘ _There_ he is. Is there anyone who hasn’t warned you about her?’

‘ _Don’t speak about her!_ ’ Treavor’s voice is a furious trill. He knocks the water-jug over, and puts out his cigarette on Custis’ ledger, ‘Don’t even _talk_ -’

-

Treavor is in the kitchen, and Mrs Higgins is dabbing at his face with a cloth. It is _cold_. It is _freezing_ , fuck.

‘Oh, oh no,’ says Mrs Higgins, recoiling from him suddenly, ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, oh no. My boy is - Wallace has gone for some laudanum, he should be back soon, I am sorry my Lord, oh no.’

Mrs Higgins is dreadfully old. She’s positively decrepit, the oldest woman Treavor has ever seen, and he must have said that out loud because she starts apologising all over again.

‘Terribly sorry my Lord, I am sorry, I -’

‘Take no notice of him, Mother,’ Wallace says, Treavor’s knight in shiny corderoy. Mrs Higgins slaps him with the cloth.

‘That’s His Lordship’s boy, Wallace!’

‘Yeah!’ says Treavor, but tilting his head makes bile rise in his throat, and he retches uselessly onto the tiled floor. When he reaches a hand up to loosen his collar he finds that it has already been removed.

‘Dear me,’ says Wallace, and carefully brushes his sweaty hair away from his face.

‘Don’t - _fuck_ \- Wallace, it’s so cold down here!’

‘It’s okay,’ says Wallace, doling the laudanum into a spoon from his top pocket, ‘you remember your other fits?’

‘Of course - of course -’

‘You’ll be fine,' says Wallace, and pulls Treavor's head to his chest as the tremors hit him.

-

Treavor is fine, in a very broad sense of the word. He goes to Parliament, and very meticulously avoids any eye contact with Jeremiah Cain. He most certainly does not write a poem for Waverly’s wedding invite.

The worst thing about all of this - barring of course the love of his life being married off when he had no clue - is that Treavor likes Jeremiah Cain. He is what Mrs Higgins would call ‘a nice old boy’ and Treavor had for the longest time assumed he was… well… an _invert_.

Cain must have been married at some point, and he has a son a bit older than Treavor’s brothers - another Jeremiah, the Tommy that Morgan had asked about - who’s also a decent enough chap, high ranked in the army, considered for Attano’s job back in the day, or so Treavor’s told.

But Jeremiah Cain, _Herman_ Jeremiah Cain, has been a confirmed bachelor for as long as Treavor can remember, living with another gentleman, Mr Joseph. Mr Joseph is enormously fat and extraordinarily flashy, and Treavor’s always thought him very charming, the kind of man who knows everyone and even when he doesn’t, acts like he does so well that they’ll be best friends by the end of the evening.

And he’s so _angry_.

Jeremiah Cain complimented Treavor’s poems when his first pamphlet was published, and defended him when Timsh had called him a ‘thoughtless fop’, had backed him up the first time he’d spoken up during a debate and stolen Waverly, somehow. Treavor manages to hide from him entirely until nearly Clans, when he gets a handkerchief snagged on Mr Joseph’s diamond-studded jacket cuff. Mr Joseph is not a subtle man.

‘Ah! Treavor Pendleton, my favourite teenager!’

‘I’m - ah - not a teenager anymore, I’m afraid, Mr Joseph. You’ll have to find another.’

‘Of course!’ says Mr Joseph, pulling them both away from the doorway and tugging, perplexed, at Treavor’s handkerchief, ‘I even sent you a card, how foolish of me to forget!’

He manages, quite suddenly, to unhook it and presents it to Treavor with a flourish.

‘Aha! Now -’ and there’s a heavy conspiratorial arm around his shoulders, Mr Joseph’s powdered face pressed to the side of Treavor’s ‘- which of these fine young people should replace my favourite twenty-year-old?’

They look out over the Parliament benches, over the heavy, whiskered faces of old men. Timothy Brisby winks at Treavor from a back bench.

‘Brisby?’

‘Timothy Brisby is twenty-two years old.’

‘Fuck me. He does do a good job of playing the stupid child.’

‘Rather.’

‘Jessica Finch is quite sweet,’ Jessica Finch is Montgomery Shaw’s fiancee. She’s got a weak chin and an overbite and she once refused Treavor a dance because she was “waiting for someone handsome”.

‘She’s vile.’

‘You think her _fiance_ is vile, which isn’t the same I’m afraid, young man! I’m decided, at any rate. Now, speaking of those to be married,’ and Mr Joseph has Treavor like a spooked little crab riding luncheon meat into the air, ‘my friend Jeremiah has been asking after you, you know.’

‘Really?’ says Treavor. It comes out as a squeak.

‘He’s quite worried he’s upset you.’

‘Upset me?’ says Treavor.

‘This Waverly Boyle business. She’s your friend; you’re quite taken by her -’

‘Who told you that?’

‘The whole Isle can see it, boy. Besides, you never wrote his invitation poem.’

‘I don’t write poems anymore,’ Treavor says stiffly, ‘I must have neglected to tell him.’

‘Ah,’ says Mr Joseph with a sigh, ‘that’s a real shame, Treavor. You really are a very good poet. But if you see Jeremiah - ah, no bother. You know I’m going to be the First Gentleman? I’ve been preparing my suit for _months_.’

Fashion, Treavor is much more comfortable with.

‘Me too.’

‘Set to dazzle?’

‘I hope so,' says Treavor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have my next chapter in just a couple days bc im on a roll rn... this chapter is a bit shitty but!!! next chapt will have ~~drama~~ i promise. ('i hope so' more like 'im gonna ruin waverly's wedding bc im a shitlord fuckboy')
> 
> also poor wallace treavor is his small son and he is a terrible person


	13. xiii

The suit that Treavor is to wear to Waverly’s wedding has cost him nearly a thousand coin, and it is a top secret. The very idea of it has been keeping him going for, fuck, how many months since he got the invite? So long; Darkness to Earth and the Fugue Feast besides which was _weeks_ this year.

Waverly’s wedding is this evening, and the suit has come out of its wrapping in the closet. It is beautiful. Treavor spends two hours on his hair before he’ll even think about putting the suit on. Looking at it makes him a little breathless.

Black isn’t really Treavor’s colour, but the suit is an entity onto itself, heavy velvet darker than charcoal. It doesn’t reflect light, at all. Glancing beams are swallowed entirely, and even the burnished silver buttons have been sanded to a stunning matte. The collar is Morley rabbit fur, tanned and tempered. It does not shine. Treavor’s suit is a personal Void and it is _beautiful_.

‘This is your expensive fucking suit, then?’ asks Custis. Against the yellowing late-summer grass Treavor’s suit is a hungry, man-shaped hole.

‘How’d you know about it?’

‘Treavor,’ says Custis, and he sighs, ‘getting Father to sign your cheques might seem very clever, but the money _still_ comes out of the bank, and the bank _still_ tell me about what comes out. You look dreadful, you know. Really bad. Who died?’

‘I did.’

‘Oh my guiding fucking Spirits. Great, merciful Cosmos: fuck me.’

‘Huh?’ says Morgan, clapping Custis on the shoulder. His suit is pale yellow as a complement to Custis’ royal purple, the cuts identical. ‘Treavor, you look _awful_. Who died?’

‘Deliver me from him,’ Custis moans as Treavor repeats himself, ‘I did.’

‘Fuck me,’ says Morgan, ‘don’t do that.’

‘It’s true!’

‘I don’t care,’ says Morgan, and cuffs him around the back of the head, ‘get in the fucking carriage.’

Treavor gets in the fucking carriage. The twins sit next to one another, leaving him the whole forward-facing bench to himself, and that is lovely. If they weren’t… brothers, and _his_ brothers at that, he might find something indecent about how Custis presses his thigh to Morgan’s, matched along the length. Perhaps, he thinks, it reminds them of the womb, of the days when there was only them and they were one. There is enough room for them not to touch, certainly. He wonders if it hurts them not to.

People mill around outside Boyle Manor. The traditional Gristol wedding doesn’t take place inside the Abbey, though it has become more popular. Treavor has been to weddings in the Abbey, when the chamber is closed and the lights are off - it does feel powerful. Frightening, too. The Outsider is denied access and in the darkness he cannot even bear witness.

Waverly’s wedding takes place under a moonless sky. It is dark, but perhaps not dark enough to exclude the Outsider. Treavor’s suit sinks in the blackness like sugar syrup in seawater. It is _sweet_.

The High Overseer pronounces Herman Jeremiah Cain the new Lord Boyle, and Treavor watches the starlight that dusts off of Waverly’s fingers as Jeremiah kisses the back of her hand, slow, reverent. He leaves a wet mark on the her middle finger that glitters like ice. It’s still summer, for a few days yet officially, but the clear night is so cold. The lamps are re-lit and everything is almost as it was. Waverly goes back inside.

Jeremiah Cain - Boyle - says, ‘Now all that’s over, I suggest we have drinks!’

A cheer is his reply.

-

Mr Joseph is very easy to find. He’s taken ‘set to dazzle’ as a real challenge, and his suit casts pearls of light across the room. There must be ten thousand coin of diamonds covering him, and he is _expansive_.

‘Treavor Pendleton!’ he exclaims, theatricality his very being, ‘my favourite twenty-year-old!’. Mr Joseph has even matched the wine he drinks to his suit, and waves away a tray of very nice Serk red before Treavor is able to take one of his own.

‘Mr Joseph,’ says Treavor, ‘dazzling, as promised.’

‘Of course, though, of course. _Your_ suit, however -’ and he motions for Treavor to do a spin, like one might to a little girl playing dress-up. Treavor obliges ‘- my days, now that is something. It really doesn’t _shine_. Black, too. Very severe. I _love_ it.’

Treavor can always count on Mr Joseph to appreciate fashion.

‘Where did you get someone to make a black collar? I never knew I needed one! Oh, to be _young_ again, Treavor, with all of these _options_ available to me. You know, I used to have a figure like yours, isn’t that right, Jerry?’

 _Jerry_ isn’t really who Treavor wants to see right now.

‘Can’t say I recall, old fruit.’

‘Lies and slander! I was like a _rail_.’

‘A _beam_ , perhaps. A _trunk_.’

‘Unbelievable, you are.’

 _Jerry_ creeps close to Treavor’s ear, ‘It’s the gelatines, Treavor. That stuff’s made to keep whales warm miles under the sea. A _moment_ on the lips...’

‘You’re always so rude, man. Here comes your lady wife.’

‘My lady wife?’ he leaps away and brushes himself down, ‘my lady wife!’

‘My lord husband,’ says Waverly, and the corners of Jeremiah Boyle’s mouth curl into a smile, ‘Mr Joseph, would you mind terribly if I borrowed my friend Treavor Pendleton?’

‘By all means, sweetheart.’

‘Take him away, my dear.’

‘Excellent,’ says Waverly, and she curls her cold fingers into Treavor’s hand like she did when they were children, pulling him up the winding servants’ staircase, across the corridor to her own bedroom.

She sits Treavor down on her bed, and smiles at him.

She says, ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’

Treavor pulls at his collar, ‘I - ah, I call it my Void Suit.’

‘Why are you wearing mourning to my wedding?’ Waverly’s smile is the unnerving rictus of a wolfhound on the blood trail.

‘I - it - it’s symbolic.’

‘Symbolic,’ says Waverly, and the hand she fists in his cravat is shaking, ‘what does it symbolise?’

‘I - Waverly -’

‘Forgive me for not seeing your _love_ in your publicly humiliating me at my pre-arranged public humiliation of a wedding, Treavor.’

‘No, Waverly, I -’

‘You’re _not_ important,’ says Waverly, and her whispery breaths stir his hair, ‘you are not _important,_ and even if you were and even if I _wanted to_ I couldn’t marry you. Why do I continue to be so stupid, Treavor? Here I was thinking you’d recognise something you were the _product_ of!’

‘I don’t underst-’

‘I know,’ she says, voice pitching up in exasperation, ‘you don’t understand because you’re not important enough to have been told.’

Treavor tries to squeak something like, ‘Be told what?’, but Waverly’s hand in his cravat pulls it so tight he can barely breathe.

‘Why do you want to mess up the only thing keeping me from the Asylum?’ she says, and then she starts to cry.

Treavor is struck dumb. ‘Waverly?’ he says, ‘I don’t _understand_ ,’ and Waverly takes a deep, shuddery breath, and starts.

‘Do you remember, on your birthday, when we collected crabs?’

‘Of course,’

‘And you remember when we returned and my Daddy was so _angry_?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he dragged me away and I was screaming, do you remember?’

‘Yes, of course I remember.’

‘Well,’ says Waverly, pressing her eyes with a shaky hand, ‘Daddy took me down to the Lunatic Asylum. He’d… warned me about it before. When I was very angry, or sad or _trouble_ , I don’t know, but he knew I was Mad. I’d never been there before, but it… fuck!

‘The Asylum is like the worst part of a cure, every day for the rest of your life, and you can’t leave. They have these ladies and they - they chain them to their beds and douse them in ice and then, if they’re still Mad they just… they get a little knife, and they put it right _here_ ,’ her hands flutter just over her eyebrow, right where it begins to bunch into her frown, ‘and they just - just cut you out. You’re still sad, but you can’t cry, and you’re angry, but you can’t shout, and Daddy said that’s what I’d be if I caused more trouble but I can’t help it, Treavor!

‘I just keep causing trouble and I don’t even know when I do it! Even after Daddy died I make trouble for Esma and Lydia and they _love_ me, they love me so much they’d sell our name to keep me whole and you just try to _ruin_ it! Fuck!’

Waverly’s hands twist into Treavor’s lapels, she pours hot tears into his collar. She’s sweating. Treavor didn’t know that she could sweat.

‘I didn’t know,’

‘And Esma said, oh, a madhouse wedding worked for Rosie Pendleton, I thought you -’

Treavor stiffens, ‘There was nothing wrong with my mother.’

Snarling, Waverly pulls her face out of his shoulder. She’s puffy and pink and for a cruel moment Treavor thinks she looks just like her father.

‘There was _everything_ wrong with your mother, Treavor. She had five dead babies, conjoined twins and _you,_ and then she killed herself. You’re just as Mad, you’re all Mad but no-one cares because you’re not Mad girls.’

‘I’m not Mad,’ says Treavor, though the idea tickles at the back of his mind like a truth.

‘You are! You cry in Parliament when you’re told to stop chuntering and you smoke little girls’ cigarettes and you thought it was appropriate to wear full mourning to your best friend’s _wedding_. You’re too lazy to work and too proud to sit around, and you’re scared of your own brothers. You’re the Maddest person I ever met.’

As she pulls away to sob into her bedsheets, Esma opens her bedroom door. She’s not quite steady on her feet, but she surveys the scene nonetheless - Waverly’s broken crying, Treavor’s mottled flush.

‘Is Pendleton _bothering_ you, Wavey?’ Waverly makes an odd, choked noise; Treavor tries to pet her hair. Esma walks the three paces to the bed, almost lifts him bodily from it - and Waverly.

‘Treavor,’ she says at length - closing Waverly’s door and walking him down the corridor. Opposite Waverly’s room is her own, more opulent but not quite as neat, ‘I’ve always found you more _mature_ than your brothers, you know. Younger siblings are always so _serious_.’

She has her hands on the buttons of her shirt. Fuck, thinks Treavor, fuck me. And then - and she might. She might literally! Treavor makes a Sound, and Esma laughs like the song of a bird.

‘You go out onto the balcony, and give me a moment to clean up,’ she says, stepping into her adjoining bathroom, and he does.

Treavor fails to hear the click of the balcony key in the latch.

-

It is maybe fifteen minutes after Treavor steps onto the balcony that he truly accepts that he’s been stranded. For a while, he consoles himself with very probable images of her struggling with corset stays, or having trouble picking out suitable negligee, but they ultimately fade in the cold night air.

And then, worst of all, there is a voice from the garden.

‘I think that’s Pendleton up there. Ho! Pendleton!’

Treavor crouches beneath the line of the railing, but it’s already too late.

‘Pendleton’s over _there_ , Monty.’

‘Not _him_ , Stephen, the _other one_.’

‘There are two?’

‘There are _three_. Pendleton, I saw you up there!’

Treavor goes for acting natural, even in the face of Montgomery Shaw. He stands, and leans nonchalantly against the barrier.

‘Evening, Monty! Dropped my watch - foolish.’

‘What are you doing up there, Trevs?’

Calling him Monty might have been a terrible idea.

‘Taking in the view. Esma was going to fetch me a drink but I rather think she’s forgotten. Daft cow.’

‘She’s just here,’ says Montgomery, and even in the low light Treavor can see his teeth flash maliciously, ‘are you locked out there?’

‘I fear I might be.’

‘Ah,’ says Montgomery, and he leaves Treavor’s field of vision very briefly. He can’t be more than a few yards from where he was originally.

‘Esma, you’ve locked Pendleton out of your balcony.’

‘Yes,’ says Esma, and Treavor can hear her walk away.

‘No luck, old chap,’ Montgomery says when he comes back into view, ‘I could try to attract one of your brothers -’

‘Please don’t.’

‘Custis!’ Montgomery greets warmly. Treavor truly, truly loathes Montgomery.

Custis looks up at Treavor on the balcony, and then he looks at the hors d'oeuvre in his hand. He looks back at Treavor. ‘No,’ he says, and Treavor can hear him walk away.

-

Three hours, or maybe just twenty-five minutes after Montgomery gets bored of him - Treavor chain-smokes his last seven cigarettes and then sits in the darkness with only his thoughts, coldness makes time slow to match frozen hands, he thinks, that’s poetic, perhaps he’s still got it - Morgan calls after him.

‘Treavor, are you still on the balcony? We’re leaving.’

‘I - yes. I’m still on the balcony. Will Esma let me down?’

‘No. Just - just stand up and shuffle down that tree.’

‘Absolutely not!’

There is silence. For a blissful moment, Treavor thinks that Morgan has left him to die. He puts a tentative foot on the top branch of the tree and feels it bend beneath him.

‘Treavor, Custis is getting really furious, please just climb down that tree.’

‘If I fall, will you catch me?’

‘What? No.’

Morgan is nothing if not honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thiS!! chapter is very important to me tbh, and I have been wanting to write it for a long long time. I think Waverly is canonically the widow (or at least that was very much the impression I got when playing the game, and then i could find nO EVIDENCE for it online hahaha god) so she must have been married. Add in her implied mental illness and the whole thing becomes a rather sad story. :( yeah as a mentally ill person myself i have a huge and irrational fear of victorian-style lunatic asylums, so that's waverly channelling me there, whoops.
> 
> yES with that unpleasantness behind us: gristol wedding traditions??? i wrote a morley wedding in an earlier chapt which was all brightness and smiles and thyme but then... gristol. hmmmmmmm. morley's a miserable place full of colourful people & culture & poverty, all going hand-in-hand, and gristol is a much more restrained & violently religious place w/ a great deal of social hierarchy that keeps the poor uneducated, i think.???? sTOP ME
> 
> anyway i dedicate this chapter to my pals CaliforniaStop (who read it over and told me it made sense bc she's an aNGEL) and signaturelle who has been encouraging me to write bullshit fanfic for video games she never played for literally yEARS ilu guys
> 
> uh yeh anyway pls leave me a comment if u read this & have the energy? im worthless without feedback oops


	14. xiv

There aren’t all that many events after the Boyle wedding - mostly to let things cool down, but Treavor also figures that Esma would actually get a murder committed if someone tried to upstage her little sister.

Jeremiah Boyle has a big name now and he keeps doing _things_ at Parliament and even though Treavor knows that it’s a wedding of convenience he’s still miserable about seeing him. Custis slams him against a wall and says that if he bunks Parliament one more time he’ll get as disinherited as he likes to pretend he is, so that’s that. Treavor sits on the third bench at Parliament and is lonely. Lord Burrows is there, and Treavor joins his entourage to take coffee after long sessions sometimes.

He’s intense, Lord Burrows, and very smart. He doesn’t drink or smoke or listen to music, and he sometimes says things which Treavor finds… unsettling, for there’s a difference between not wanting the crying two-year-old Princess in session with the Empress and suggesting that she’s chained to the outdoor gates.

Perhaps Treavor is sensitive about these things. He recalls being chained to an outdoor gate. People ask after his brothers. He goes home.

In the weeks since Waverly’s wedding, Treavor finds himself overcome with a sort of sneaking curiosity with regards to his mother. Father does not speak about her. At some point, he works up the courage to ask Wallace if he knew that his parents had a Madhouse Wedding, and Wallace pauses because the short answer is ‘yes’.

The long answer is also ‘yes’, but it’s a different kind of yes, and much more subtle.

-

Lord Pendleton finally gets married when Wallace is eight. His father is ecstatic about the whole thing, being as he is, horribly devoted to the man. The new Lady Pendleton seems, to Wallace’s young eyes, very nice indeed - very pretty and very slim and very fair, and she kisses Lord Pendleton ever so chastely when he leaves the house, and doesn’t cause any trouble at all for anyone.

Wallace hears the older servants gossip sometimes, saying that His Lordship’s marriage still hasn’t been consummated, and Wallace doesn’t know what that means. His father hits him with his stick for asking. When Wallace is ten, Lady Pendleton begins her _pattern_. Every year or so, she swells up in a particular way that Wallace learns is called Pregnant, and then, as it ends, she spends a day or two screaming and crying and a sad little dead baby is deposited in the household.

This makes her scream and cry a lot. She’s only a little thing, really, and the noises she can make are really quite astounding. It makes Wallace’s mother cry, too. Once she has a hold of herself, Lady Pendleton has a very quiet funeral service for the sad dead baby, and then they put it in the ground and no-one talks about it ever again, though Lady Pendleton goes outside to visit the sad little headstones every week.

It happens three times, which Wallace thinks is quite enough for a pattern, and on the fourth time, Lady Pendleton does something very bizarre.

Lady Pendleton has a baby with two heads. Wallace later learns that the baby with two heads also has two bodies entire, but for the first hour after he hears this a whole new terror he’d never thought of before sweeps his body.

Bizarrer still - the two-headed baby is not dead. Very much not dead, and that is when Wallace first sees it, its two heads and its two bodies, stapled together at the fingertips, screaming and pink and draped with a blanket, for Doctor Boretti says it will be safer to separate them in a few days, once the whole household has recovered.

They - he supposes the two-headed baby is a they - are fussy, horrible little things that refuse Lady Pendleton’s breast and make her weak with frustration. Lord Pendleton cracks open a very nice bottle of wine for the servants, and makes a toast and says, ‘My sons!’ before breaking down in joyous tears. The next morning, Wallace is asked to run an advert down to the agency.

Wallace is thirteen now, tall for his age, and strapping in the way of lads that work hard. He can run fast, much faster than any of the rest of the staff, even carrying heavy loads. His Lordship’s advert is for a wet nurse and a dry nurse, and Lady Pendleton has made a great list of specifications these poor ladies need to conform to. Wallace’s father has a hand on the small of his back as he stands before his masters - Lord Pendleton is perched on the front of his desk, and Her Ladyship sits behind it. His Lordship gives Wallace twelve coin for the advert -

‘It shouldn’t cost more than two, but it’s not worth the argument. Buy yourself something with the change.’

Wallace’s father, still with a hand pressed to his son, protests, ‘My Lord, that’s -’

‘Nonsense, Barty. I dare say I owe your boy something after all these years?’

‘My Lord...’

‘Don’t _argue_ , Barty, it becomes none of us. Be a chap and fetch my paper, eh?’

‘Of course, My Lord,’ says Wallace’s father, and he leaves. After he has closed the door, His Lordship hops down from his desk, bracing his hands on his thighs in order to keep eye-level with Wallace. Lord Pendleton is dreadfully tall, and his handsome mustache makes him look much younger than he truly is. He smiles.

‘Now, Wallace, I’ve another little job for you,’ and he thrusts two envelopes at him, ‘these are for my sister-in-law, and my brother-in-law. They don’t live far away.’

‘I’ll deliver them, Sir!’

‘Capital! Do try not to tell Barty about them, at least until they’re delivered, though. Fool man would hurt himself.’

‘Of course, My Lord,’ says Wallace, and as he leaves Lady Pendleton makes a quiet interjection -

‘She mustn’t - she mustn’t smoke. Put that in the advert.’

‘Mustn’t smoke?’ says Lord Pendleton, and he lights a cigarette in indignation.

‘You write that down, Wallace, she mustn’t smoke. It’s bad for the babies.’

‘Of course, My Lady.’

‘Rosie, any boy of mine will be smoking ten a day before he’s off the teat!’

Lady Pendleton mutters something, and His Lordship meets her eyes and smirks.

‘Dirty habit,’ says Lord Pendleton, and he blows a perfectly formed ring of smoke across the room.

‘It _is_ a dirty habit,’ says Lady Pendleton, but her exasperation is playful, ‘a dirty habit for filthy old men who seduce little girls.’

Lord Pendleton laughs and leaves his cigarette still smouldering in the ash-tray, ‘it will be a fine and dirty habit for the sons of the seductress,’ he says, and kisses her hard on the mouth.

-

Wallace buys himself two toys after he delivers the advert and the letters - a clever tin spinning top that has a magnet on the spindle, with two enameled metal snakes that wriggle around it as it spins, and a little wooden whale. It’s a bit crude, and most of its head is a knot that looks almost rotten, but it’s smooth and heavy in his hand, so he likes it a great deal.

Wallace is quite sure that his father will not be pleased with these frivolities, which is why he is especially proud that he still has four of His Lordship’s twelve coin in his pocket. He even stops himself from buying hot chestnuts from the chestnut man. He’s the very picture of self-control.

Lord Pendleton seems quite enamoured with the snake top, and his father is rather pleased when he makes a show of returning the four coin, and when he is dismissed he sneaks away to look at the two-headed baby.

It is horrible. He watches, silent, as Lady Pendleton hopelessly presses its heads into her naked chest, again and again, and each ugly face turns away, squawling like a bird. Is it cursed, he wonders, a monster? In many ways, he supposes, it is similar to that first dead baby, which had no legs - but he had seen that swaddled before it went in its coffin, when he was younger and more prone to flights of fancy, and had never thought of it as an omen.

In the library, he picks up every book he can reach - The Old Serk Gods; Omens of the Outsider; Before Dunwall; Folk Tales of Tyvia; Mapping the Void - scanning every page for mentions of twins, conjoined people, identical people. In Tyvia they have a story about a _doppelgänger_ , who follows his twin into dark places, eats him, and takes his place. _Serk Gods_ makes mention of a priestess to Blind Twins from the Other, and _Before Dunwall_ has a plate dedicated to a bone carving that washed up on a riverbank, showing two men next to one another. On their outsides their palms are open to the viewer. Their inside hands are pressed together. In another depiction, they have three hands between them, and the shared hand holds out a frog.

His father finds him that evening, still poring over those dreadful books. He can’t read, certainly not fast enough to clock all the religious and heretical texts, but the damning picture of the hand with two wrists, spread across two pages, is worth a thousand words.

‘Wallace,’ says his father, and there is a slow, disbelieving anger in his voice, ‘what is the meaning of this?’ Wallace finds that he can’t rightly lie.

‘I… don’t know.’

‘You don’t know,’ says his father, bustling around him and collecting up the books, ‘you’d best not.’

‘Dad, I -’

‘Don’t you dare, Wallace! They’re to be your masters - and even if not, you think, boy. Her Ladyship has had such _trouble_. I can’t believe -’

‘Dad, it’s not what it -’

‘What it looks like! You can’t lie to me, Wallace, I _made_ you.’

‘Do you want me to apologise to the General?’

‘I want you to never even _think_ about this again.’

‘Okay, Dad.’

His father never really looks at him the same way after that, and the horrible two-headed baby is separated into two horrible babies, and only Wallace’s father is allowed to call them monsters under his breath.

-

‘But did you _know_?’ Treavor asks, insistent, shaking him from his reverie.

‘I - yes, I suppose so.’

‘Oh,’ says Treavor, ‘Oh no. Why - why didn’t you tell me? She _did_ kill herself.’

‘It was hardly my place.’

‘And what of _my_ place, Wallace? How fucking stupid do I look now! I can’t deny this stuff like a decent gentleman if I’m too busy being shocked about it. Void-fucking damn it! I’m going to have a drink now.’

‘My Lord...’

‘Don’t you _My Lord_ me, Wallace! If there’s a fire, I’ll be in the north wing parlour.’

‘My Lord -’

‘Fuck off!’

-

Treavor is drinking alone in the north wing parlour when Morgan - who has been drinking alone in the west wing parlour - stumbles in, the very picture of misery. Treavor knows better than to ask him about it, so they sit in near-companionable silence for a long time.

Morgan goes to say something, quite suddenly, but Treavor cuts him off.

‘What was Mother like?’

‘You’re drunk.’

‘I - Perhaps. Morgan, I don’t -’

‘Don’t what?’

‘I need to _know_ about her.’

‘Why now? She’s been gone fifteen years.’

‘I don’t know. Wallace said something to me - I don’t know.’

‘Well, I don’t know what to tell you.’

‘What colour was her hair?’

‘You don’t remember.’

‘She was blonde. Was she blonde? Morgan, I was very small. I don’t remember.’

‘She was blonde. I think she had grey eyes. She liked… her favourite colour was green. She wore her hair up, and then it was curly down the back. She wore dresses, sometimes.’

Treavor nods sagely, for it feels less like a new picture being painted than an old one being restored, fifteen years of grime carefully washed from the surface of the canvas.

‘She hated the Overseer’s hounds,’ Morgan says, ‘I remember that very well. We went to the Gardens, once, all five of us. You were in the buggy, I guess you can’t have been very big at all - but Mother could walk so maybe… I forget when it was.’

Morgan goes to take a drink from his glass and finds it empty. Treavor pours the last of his Tyvian Red into his low tumbler. Morgan has been drinking whiskey.

‘It wasn’t long after the Fugue, though, and there were all these Overseers, just, on every corner. Cleaning up, I don’t know. Me and - and Custis, we found this big grasshopper, because one of the hounds was playing with it, and he put it in your buggy. The dog just - it goes ballistic because we took the grasshopper away and it jumps right in the buggy after it and Mother starts, just - screaming and crying and pulling us close… Father’s getting really embarrassed. He just swats the hound with his newspaper, once - wham! - and Mother’s still crying and _loud_ , I don’t know what’s going on, I -’

Morgan stares at Treavor, and Treavor stares right back. He slurps indecently at the very nice wine in his tumbler.

‘I’ve forgotten what I was telling you about.’

‘...Right,’ says Treavor, getting to his feet almost steadily, ‘do you know the code to the safe under Father’s desk?’

‘1752, the year he was born,’ Morgan slurs, reclining on the sofa, ‘don’t steal anything.’

Treavor doubts that Father would be stupid enough to use his own birth year as a safe code, but after he creeps into the office, kneeling under the desk shifting the numbered barrels, he’s rather pleased that he went for something so simple.

There are bone runes in the safe, Treavor knows this, and knows he’s not supposed to know this, but he’s never seen one before. It’s lighter than it looks, almost iridescent in the candlelight, and the more he touches it, the more he _wants_ to touch it. Even in his drunken state this seems like a foolish thing to mess with, so he carefully slides the four runes to the back of the cloth-wrapped paintings jammed diagonally in the safe. There’s the wedding portrait from when he’d gained a stepmother, a painting of poor, presumed-dead Uncle Edmund, and a book of disgusting watercolours of baby Morgan and baby Custis and baby Treavor, Father with a mustache, all signed and dated by Mother, _Rosie_ , 1807, 1808, 1811.There, at the very back, is what he’s after.

His parents’ wedding picture.

As a young child, before Father had married _Angelica_ , Treavor had regarded the portrait with a kind of delight. His parents looking pretty and happy, smiling out of their frame, sitting above the mantel in Mother’s dressing room. Then, it had become _Angelica’s_ dressing room, and she wanted it removed, and it had gone into Father’s safe, and Treavor hasn’t seen it since.

It’s a funny thing, growing older. When Treavor was six his parents in the wedding portrait had seemed impossibly old, and his ten-year-old brothers had been terribly grown-up and big and dangerous. Now, he’s a hairs-breadth taller than Custis (if not Morgan), and those four years don’t seem so far at all. As an adult, he looks at the portrait and sees not his happy, grown-up parents, but a man his father hasn’t been for nearly ten years, and a little girl.

It’s horrible. Tentatively, he draws his cuff over his hand, and dusts over his mother’s face. She remains the same, somewhere between fifteen and eighteen, luminously pale next to Father’s dark uniform. She looks… smitten, but there’s something so _wrong_ about her, hands clasped with a man three times her age. The golden plaque below the picture reads “Lord and Lady Pendleton, 1799”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay i was so panicky about this but [Derry]() is an angel and read it for me, so basically BLESS U PAL.
> 
> yeh so??? this was supposed to happen last chapter but i liked where i ended it and then it took me like six months to write and it's all dreadfully embarrassing. if u want my headcanons on how our lord & lady pendleton look, i picture him looking a bit like [Prince Eddy](http://cultureandstuff.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/Prince_Albert_Victor_Duke_of_Clarence_1864-1892_by_William_1829-18__and_Daniel_Downey_18_-1881.jpg), and her like the [G F Watts painting of Lady Garvagh](http://www.georgefredericwatts.org/Lady-Garvagh-%28d.1926%29-1874.jpg), only younger. and wallace's father just looks like wallace with a beard ahhaha
> 
> please please tell me what you think because im.... desperate for validation hahaha thanks pals xx


	15. xv

Morgan is on a diet. It’s a terribly complicated thing, meant to build lean mass or lose it or _something_ , Treavor doesn’t know, but the whole household has been forced to comply to it just because Morgan’s three pounds heavier than the weight category he boxes at.

Morgan’s diet involves mostly raw eggs and a lot of asparagus and to be honest, it’s a miserable existence. Morgan does look good though, his hair is all shiny and Custis has lost the lingering acne from his jaw. It doesn’t seem to have the desired effect on Treavor, though, who just feels lightheaded and vaguely nauseated all of the _fucking_ time. His complaints are met with a selection of mocking crying noises from his brothers, and Father says that _he’s_ felt dreadful for the past ten years, but _he_ hasn’t complained, has he?

Father _has_ complained. He’s a hypocritical lying old drunk fuck who doesn’t let Treavor get a word in edgeways, but he can’t bring himself to hate him. Custis receives a gift crate of very nice Serk dessert wine in the week before his twenty-sixth birthday, and Treavor brings a bottle to Father’s room.

‘Frost? Is that you? I’ve been ringing the bell for five damn minutes!’

‘It’s me, Father.’

‘Treavor. Do you know what’s taking Frost so long? I’m dreadfully thirsty.’

‘I - there was a small fire in the kitchen. The new girl didn’t understand the oven.’

‘New girl? Why’s there a new girl?’

‘The twins... upset the last one.’

‘Upset her,’ says Father, in a tone that suggests that he very much understands what that means.

‘I brought wine,’ Treavor says, hopefully, ‘do you have a glass?’

‘On - on the side there. What is it?’

‘A - uh - a Moscat, apparently.’

‘Lovely,’ says Father, and he waits patiently for his glass to be poured, ‘did you choose this?’

‘A friend of Custis’ sent it.’

‘Ah, their birthdays.’

‘Yeah. I - uh - what did you get them? I’m thinking of getting concert tickets. That Tyvian chap that Custis likes is going to perform in Gristol in the summer -’

‘I commissioned a portrait. Anton Sokolov. He rather backed me into it.’

‘Good - good idea. I’ll get those tickets - I - Father -’

‘Spit it out, Treavor.’

‘I have a query.’

‘... Regarding?’

‘Mother. My Mother.’

‘Your mother.’

‘Rosie.’

‘I know who you’re talking about.’

‘Well, I - you know, on account of -’

‘On account of I married her to keep her from the asylum?’

‘Yes. A madhouse wedding.’

‘Is that what they call it these days? Outsider’s eyes but that’s _charming_.’

‘I -’

‘For fuck’s sake, Treavor!’

‘Did you love her? I mean, when you married her?’

‘When I married her? No.’

‘But you came to love her?’

‘I _learned_ to love her.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘She was Herbert’s little sister. I knew her. She was a funny little girl who would follow me around if Herbert brought her along. There was some trouble up at her boarding school, though. She fought with her housemistress and - if I recall correctly - _bit_ her mathematics professor.’ Father has drained his glass and he holds it out for more - Treavor’s barely _sipped_ his.

‘She bit him?’

‘Yes. She was expelled, naturally, and Herbert was at his wit’s end. I offered to keep her safe, in my home.’

‘And you came to love her.’

‘Your mother could be very… persuasive.’

‘Like me!’ says Treavor, just as his father says, ‘like Custis.’

Father sighs then, indicating his _again_ empty glass, and says, ‘What’s all this about, anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s disturbing you. Frost told me you’d left six different journals about congenital madness in various places about the house, you know.’

‘I’m not disturbed.’

‘Capital,’ says Father, and he leans back into his chair as though the conversation is finished.

‘Well, the thing is that Waverly Bo-’

‘ _Waverly Boyle_ ,’ Father says, his voice deep and smooth with sweet wine, ‘must everything you say be about that girl?’

‘She’s my only friend! My only friend worth having, anyway, no thanks to you, Father.’

‘Now what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You know what it means!’

‘No,’ says Father, ‘I really don’t.’

‘I’m just worried about her, with Jeremiah. He’s _old_ , you know, and if she - she… you know.’

‘I think it’s very unlikely that she’d fall in love with Jeremiah, only to have her heart broken by his death.’

‘How did you -’

‘Treavor, I’ve made a great deal of money in reading people, and neither my advanced age nor my lack of eyesight would rob me of that.’

‘I didn’t mean that, Father.’

‘Capital,’ says Father again, ‘do leave the bottle behind.’

-

Waverly doesn’t come to Parliament that much anymore, but she does meet him in the archives to play chess fairly often. She is very good at chess.

It’s a very dark midwinter day - only three in the afternoon but already cold and cloudless, lit by the moon - when he steps outside to find her carriage standing in front of the manor. He recognises it instantly; Boyle family crest imposing upon the doors, it sits empty. Treavor lights a cigarette and approaches it with trepidation.

‘Lord Pendleton!’ the driver springs from behind the carriage nervously, a nasty hand-rolled dog-end between his fingers ‘- I mean, Lord _Treavor_ Pendleton!’

‘...Yes?’ says Treavor, and he can’t help but eye the man suspiciously.

‘Lady Waverly would like to have you as a guest at her home.’

‘What? When?’

‘I - now, My Lord.’

‘Now?’ Treavor is dressed for a party he very much doesn’t want to go to - the very idea of these ingratiating social climbers makes him _itch_ but a gentleman of leisure must make his appearances.

‘If you can, My Lord,’ says the driver, flicking the butt of his cigarette somewhere into the shrubbery that Treavor’s stepmother had put in. Treavor climbs into the carriage - very nice, an old-fashioned wood frame with enamelled metal exterior, green velvet seats and rolling windows, and it’s only as they start moving that he realises that, fuck, this guy could be here to kill him - Waverly could be trying to kill him! Is it bad practice to now ask the driver what, precisely, Waverly wants with him? He just said her name and had her carriage and he assumes - he doesn’t know what he assumes, but the carriage takes him directly to the Boyle Manor, as promised. Another servant meets him inside, walking him past Jeremiah’s open office door -

‘Treavor Pendleton!’

‘Yes sir,’

‘You’ve come to see Waverly?’

‘I - yes. She invited me.’

Jeremiah sucks on the end of his pen - ‘That’s good, that’s good. She’s been - to tell you the truth, she’s been terribly _sad_ recently.’

‘Oh,’ says Treavor, unsure of what to say. Does Jeremiah know that _he_ knows about their sham madhouse wedding? He plasters a smile on his face - ‘I’ll speak to her.’

Waverly’s servant interrupts, ‘Lady Waverly requests that you join her in her room,’ he says, ‘for _tea_.’ he puts a strange inflection on the word, a click, like a burst of air behind his teeth. What a strange man. Treavor follows him to Waverly’s room, and he stands beside it.

‘Lady Waverly requests that you open the door yourself,’ he says, and he wanders off. A very strange man indeed. Treavor opens the door.

Waverly’s room is steamy, as though an over-hot bath is cooling in the other room - the air is wet and herbal, and condenses cold on Treavor’s skin.

‘Waverly,’ he says, and it is almost a gasp. She smiles at him from her bed, where she reclines in a silk dressing-gown, the ends of her hair still damp, clumped and curling.

‘Treavor,’ she replies, pulling herself into a cross-legged sit, ‘you came.’

‘I - of course I came.’

‘Good,’ she says, and her voice, too, is oddly breathy, ‘I need to ask a favour of you.’

‘A favour? Okay.’

‘No. Listen, alright, because I’m asking you because I… trust you, absurdly. You mustn’t tell, whether you help me or not - do you know what that means?’

They stare at one another. He’s still a distance from her, so he closes it, still keeping eye-contact -

‘You’ll have me killed.’

‘Yes.’

‘I promise, then.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise not to tell.’

Waverly takes a deep breath, and then she seems almost too embarrassed to keep his eye, looking down at her own clenching hands.

‘I’d like you to lick me.’

‘You what?’

‘Oh, fuck it - get out of here, Treavor. Stupid - fucking -’

‘No, wait -’ another step closer to where she sits against her pillows, until he’s standing with his knees pressing into the edge of the mattress ‘- you mean your -’ his voice drops to a childish whisper ‘- your _nethers_.’

‘Outsider’s _eyes_ , Treavor! I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea, I’m just - fuck, _desperate_ , and I - what was that?’

‘I said, “I’ll do it.”’

‘Well, you don’t have to make it sound like such a chore. I just had a bath, and I don’t have lice, or The Gunk or, you know, any of those horrible things your girls at the Cat have, and I - take your fucking shoes off before you get on my bed. And lock the door.’

‘Alright, hang on -’ awkwardly hunched, he hops back to the door, unbuttoning his boots with one hand and discarding them by her coffee set, then tossing his frock-coat over the back of the chair.

‘The lock turns left - left, you have to lift the handle. Spin that little cover over the keyhole.’

‘- Okay, do you want me to - kiss you?’

‘What? No! Get down there and do what I tell you.’

‘Alright -’

‘Shhh!’

It’s odd being this close to Waverly, here between her legs. No fantasy he’s ever had has prepared him for a real woman with spots on her thighs and pale, curling hairs covering her shins. He spreads the gown on either side of her hips with trembling fingertips, and brings them over onto -

‘Fuck! Not with your hands, they’re _freezing_!’

‘Right, sorry, I -’

‘Shh!’ Waverly hisses again, leaning up to grab his head and shove it gracelessly into her crotch - her pubic hair goes up his nose and he splutters, snuffles -

'Eugh, don't do that! Use your tongue, it's clever enough.'

It's almost a compliment, the best he's gotten from her in - in ever, and that's what encourages him to let his tongue out of the safe confines of his own mouth and onto her - her - fuck but he can’t find the word.

Timothy Brisby would call it her cunny or pussy or cunt, horrible words that sit wrong in the back of Treavor’s throat and vomit out like pieces of eggshell between his teeth. Timothy Brisby uses words like ‘juicy’ to describe a woman’s sex - Treavor is allergic to so many kinds of fruit that the thought of juice makes him itchy.

Really, Treavor should not be thinking about Timothy Brisby with his lips on Waverly’s… lips, but Timothy has always been so creative and generous with his sexual fantasies that _of course_ a few late-night card games have turned into late-night mutual wank sessions when they’ve both drunk so much they can no longer remember the rules of nancy and the naked ladies on Timothy’s playing cards become too distracting for anything else to happen. In the back room of their club, Timothy will share a make-believe about, say, the buxom redhead on the three of hearts and the skinny blonde on the nine of diamonds that leaves them both scrambling at their trouser-buttons in the dim, smoky light. Yes - it’s embarrassing, but at least Timothy’s inventiveness - perversion, whichever - has given him some sort of idea of what he’s supposed to be doing down here.

Waverly tastes… smooth - almost sweet but tangy with soap from her bath, and Treavor can’t believe he’s gotten to almost twenty-two without ever tasting a girl - a _woman_ \- like this. When he licks a wet stripe up the inside of her thigh to her groin she makes a Noise that shocks him into stopping but she groans and says, ‘That’s good - that’s _good_ ,’ so he does it again. And again, and again and again until she shudders and moans and knees him in the face.

‘Fuck!’

‘Sorry, Treavor, I - that was _lovely_.’

Treavor shuffles out from between her legs to put his face into the pillows, strangely exhausted. He’s hardly done _anything_.

‘Say,’ says Waverly, almost deviously, and she claws a hand into his shoulder to roll him onto his back.

This, again, is an inelegant task. They’re both on the bony, awkward side of thin as opposed to the soft and graceful one their siblings inhabit, and when Waverly pulls herself atop him their shins clack together and it _hurts_ , bruising and hard. Waverly starts on his trouser placket, so he quickly sheds his waistcoat, and begins to work on his shirt buttons.

‘I didn’t tell you to take your shirt off,’ says Waverly as she pulls his trousers and drawers from his legs together like a magician’s trick, leaving him naked from the waist down aside from his sock garters, ‘stop that.’

Treavor doesn’t stop that. ‘Waverly, I’ll -’

‘I didn’t tell you to get naked. What are you doing?’

‘I’ll suffocate!’

‘What?’

‘My _corset_ -’

Waverly looks vaguely bemused, ‘Oh, fuck me, Treavor.’

‘I am trying.’

‘Har har, Treavor, come here,’ she says, and makes swift work of his shirt, the ribbons of his corset and his undershirt, throwing them into an undignified pile on her bedroom floor, ‘you’re ridiculous,’ she says, and his half-hard prick flags under the shame of it all.

‘Hey now,’ she boxes him gently, under his chin, smiles like she’s actually enjoying herself, and uses her small, cool hands to cheer his dick up before she sits herself down on it.

‘ _Fuck me_ ,’ says Treavor.

‘I am.’

‘Har - _oh_ -’

‘Shut _up_ , Treavor.’

‘ _You_ shut - _ah_ , my God.’

‘Your God?’ says Waverly, laughing out loud, ‘who’s that?’

‘Oh I don’t - oh - know, you hear guards and them say it, “goddamn this”, “that, my god”.’

‘Can’t say I’ve ever been so close to a guard.’

‘Like you haven’t _wanted_ to.’

‘You’re ridiculous,’ Waverly says again, but it is genuinely affectionate and this - _this_ , fucking and laughing in the bed she shares with her husband - _this_ feels like a natural extension of their friendship, like jerking off with Timothy Brisby in the back room of the club but infinitely better for the real shared memories between them, and the real touch of skin and the lack of Timothy Brisby.

He comes embarrassingly hard, with a Noise, and Waverly rolls off of him, giggling like the girl she used to be.

‘My God,’ she mocks, walking into her bathroom to splash herself with now-cold water from her bathtub before crawling back onto the bed, lighting a cigarette for herself and passing one from the box to Treavor.

‘Thanks,’ says Treavor, before he lights it and takes the first puff - and then he coughs and winces, looking at it in disgust, ‘what the fuck is this?’

‘Henley’s Pandyssian Extras,’ Waverly recites from the box, but she looks no more satisfied with her own.

‘Henley’s Pandyssian - Waverly, these are _old men’s_ cigarettes. My father smokes these because he’s _eighty_ and hasn’t got any taste buds.’

‘Jeremiah got them for me.’

‘Ask him for something else. Parson & Partridge have started selling these magnificent Lilac ones, and -’

‘I’m lucky he lets me smoke at all,’ she says, the carefree joy draining out of her like water from a sponge, ‘I mean, he’s the best jailor I could ask for, but he’s still my jailor.’

‘Oh,’ says Treavor.

‘He’s kind,’ she says, trailing her hand across the sparse dark hair on his chest, ‘and he does try, but Tommy doesn’t like me - he’s always calling me _Mother_ , in that stupid voice, like I’ve forgotten that he’s ten years my senior,’ she sighs, fixated on a particular hair that Treavor can feel her tugging on.

‘Tommy _spied_ on me, found out when I fucked the servants. They’re _traitors_ , Treavor. Put fifty fucking coin in front of them and they’d sell their own _feet_. You’re the only person I trust.’

Treavor swells with pride. He’s always dreamed that Waverly would take him for the things in him that were the best - his wit, his fashion, a well-written poem. He’s never thought of himself as especially trustworthy, but - well. If Waverly thinks so -

‘Ouch, fuck!’

Waverly holds a hair nearly as long as her thumb out toward him. Treavor rubs at the sore spot just over his heart, on the ridge of a rib.

‘You’re welcome,’ she says, wrapping her robe closer around her, ‘I’m freezing - aren’t you cold?’ Treavor _is_ cold, and his sweaty sock garters are actually quite painfully stuck to his legs - he pulls on his drawers and undershirt and buffs at his legs with his trousers before putting them on, and Waverly watches him.

‘You look like shit, Treavor,’

‘Thanks. You’re beautiful.’

‘Shut up, I’m not being rude, you really look ill. Have you been starving yourself?’

‘What? Why would I do a thing like that?’

‘I don’t know. Plenty of my friends - they’ll do silly things to fit into a suit. Even Esma, I - oh _shit_ -’

‘Huh?’

‘Esma’s going to have a _baby_.’

‘A baby?’

‘A baby,’ says Waverly, and Treavor has to stop himself from turning this into a circular conversation where he asks “A baby?” again and again -

‘Is that what _this_ is about?’ he asks, gesturing to her dirty bedsheets and silk-covered nakedness.

‘What? I - no. I can’t get pregnant, Jeremiah was quite unhappy about that.’

‘Eugh, you tried with Jeremiah?’

‘He’s my _husband_. Are you aware of what a marriage entails?’

‘Right. Sorry.’ Treavor fastens himself into his corset and tries hopelessly to tie it on his own until Waverly comes up behind him and wraps her hands tight into the flat ribbons, pulling it closed.

‘Is that good?’

‘It’ll do. Tie it as flat as you can, or it looks like I’ve got a tumour.’

‘Gross,’ she says, but her bows are nearly as good as Wallace’s, ‘I’m going to set up the board - you put my sheets in the bath, and that’ll shut the servants up, alright?’

‘Okay. I’ll play black,’ Treavor shrugs his shirt on and tries to button it straight.

‘Every time you play black you give me the advantage,’ says Waverly, tossing his coat over from her small table and laying out the chessboard and her tea set.

‘I do not!’ the bedsheet splashes into the half-full bathtub, ‘I get to best your moves over and over.’

‘You get the _chance_ \- you’re just not ever smart enough to take it.’

‘ _Rude_ \- I’ll beat you, you’ll see.’

Waverly wins three games in a row.

-

Treavor goes back into the manor through the kitchen for maximum stealth. Or, he thinks it will be maximum stealth until he sees Morgan sitting on the kitchen counter, and Custis leant against the cupboard on his left.

‘Hello, Treavor.’

‘I - hello Morgan. Custis.’

‘Treavor.’

‘Where have you been? The Jacquets sent me a _very_ rude note.’

‘I went to Waverly’s. We played chess.’

‘Liar.’

‘I did!’

‘And _then_ you stopped off at the Cat?’

‘... No.’

‘Liar! You stink of fanny, Treavor.’

‘Don’t be crass, Morgan. What he means to say, Treavor, is that you fairly reek of cunt. Who did you see?’

‘I didn’t -’

‘Was it Sophie?’ Morgan asks, grinning at Custis, ‘with her lovely pert arse -’

‘- Or Kate? Her tits -’

Treavor suddenly remembers Waverly, and her stricken face as she told him not to tell anyone.

‘- Madeline -’

 _I’ll have you killed_ , thinks Treavor, over his brothers’ loudening suggestions.

‘- Louise -’

‘It was _Tilly_ , okay?’

‘Tilly?’ says Custis, ‘Outsider’s eyes, I suppose if you like fat girls who _scream_ -’

‘She doesn’t scream.’

‘I think you’re doing it wrong,’ Morgan says.

‘Oh I don’t want to know - in addition to being… very weird -’

‘- ugly -’

‘- undersized -’

‘- and stupid -’

‘- You’re also a terrible fuck. I could have lived without that knowledge.’

‘I think it’s obvious from looking at him, Custis,’ Morgan pauses, then, to bring a half-eaten slice of - fucking chocolate cake to his mouth.

‘Aren’t you on a diet?’ Treavor snaps, irritably, and Morgan gives a huge, chocolate-stained grimace of a smile, dusting crumbs off his hands in Treavor’s direction.

‘Don’t be filthy, Morgan - the diet never restricted his cake intake, anyway.’

‘You let me believe -’

‘Well, yes. You were trying so _hard_ and I thought another few weeks might do you some good.’

‘- another few weeks and I might have starved to death.’

‘Precisely,’ says Custis, as though that’s an innocuous statement, looking down at his fingernails.

‘Oh - fuck you,’ says Treavor, spinning on his heel - he’s had enough of them.

‘Don’t!’ Morgan says as Treavor is just starting on the staircase, ‘You can’t go upstairs. Doctor Andrews is there.’

‘Doctor Andrews?’

‘Father had… I don’t know, a spasm -’

‘- like father, like son,’ says Custis, looking darkly at Treavor, ‘I think he _finally_ gave himself alcohol poisoning. Good fucking riddance.’

‘He’s not even dead yet,’ says Morgan, gravely.

'I don't give a shit. I'm almost as ashamed of him as I am of Treavor,' Custis says, and Morgan actually winces. It's always strange to see his brothers disagree, and this is no different - Morgan's low, reproachful whisper matched by the raise of Custis' eyebrows, his surprise at their disconnect. It's rare enough that Treavor can count the number of times it's happened this year across one hand, but Custis never seems to learn from it.

Treavor once had a Gristol tutor - his favorite - when he was twelve he'd given Treavor a present of a poetry book with pretty illustrations of girls with long hair draped in silks, a really grown-up present, and Treavor's never forgotten that. Treavor's tutor had told him, bold as brass, that Custis was very clever - but he had less self-awareness than a dog of a similar size, and Treavor thinks about that a lot. Large dogs can learn to recognise their reflections - Treavor's read a book about dogs - but some times they will mistake another dog on the opposite side of a window for themselves, for long periods of time, until the other dog sneezes or yawns or moves - they react with cold terror, run miles, stupid fucking dogs. Treavor wonders if Custis sees himself in the mirror and is shocked by his hair appearing to part on the opposite side to Morgan’s.

He supposes it must be frightening to see an extension of yourself doing something you wouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy oh boy guess who's never written sex before hahahaha god im sweating i've had this done for over two weeks and i've been putting it off because i'm embarrassed oh boy. Many thankz to my pal CaliforniaStop for reading this over I love u buddy :*
> 
> (please please please give me feedback you all know i'm worthless without it)


	16. xvi

‘I know,’ says Maurice, ‘I get it! Parliament is _boring_ , lesson learned.’

Treavor hums thoughtfully. He’s stuck with Maurice all day, and Anna wants him taken to every debate today. They won’t end until after nine, and they’ve only just adjourned for lunch.

Maurice checks his watch with an air of desperation, then snaps it closed - ‘Fuck me.’

‘Language, Maurice,’ says Treavor. They’re in the park, looking for an appropriate bench - Anna has packed Maurice a luncheon, an incredible faux-pas, and now Treavor has to sit down while the damn kid eats his sandwich out of a paper bag, like an _idiot_.

‘Piss off, Treavor,’ Maurice settles on the bench and rustles through his pockets - Treavor rather regrets doing Anna a favour. ‘Please let me go home now, Treavor. I get it!’

Treavor sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to pretend that he’s not actually accompanying Maurice as he sprays crumbs everywhere, ‘I don’t even know what you’re supposed to be _getting_. Your Mother said you couldn’t go home until evening.’

‘My mum told you - I told a lie, alright. A stupid little lie to my friend Rachel and she got worried and told her dad and he came over to ours and shouted mum’s ear off - I told you.’

‘What?’ says Treavor. The machinations of twelve-year-olds are a mystery to him, having never been a proper twelve-year-old himself.

‘Rachel,’ Maurice says, defeated, ‘she’s rather common and stupid - I told her that “My mum’s cousin Custis works at Parliament and he made it illegal for anyone to look at his horses without a permit”’ Maurice’s impression of his past self is a croaky screech - horrible.

‘Mum’s always going on and on about lying and treating common folk poor, but she’s always lying to me - she told me that the Tyvian lady that lives with Aunt Celia just goes there to look after the chickens! She’s lying though, right? They’re _lovers_. They are, aren’t they.’

Maurice speaks too quickly. He’s going to have to get that under control if he wants to inherit his mother’s store. Treavor frowns and says, ‘Celia keeps chickens?’

‘In her kitchen! She’s mad, is Aunt Celia.’

‘“Aunt Celia is mad”, Maurice, not “She’s mad, is Aunt Celia”. You sound like a fucking _bumpkin_.’

'I know, I get it. I can't believe I thought it would be fun to go to parliament with you, you know. I thought, "Oh, mum’s Cousin Treavor's the only member of my family who's not a _hundred years old,_ he'll be a laugh" - and then mum's telling me, "You have to be careful with Cousin Treavor, you know he's _fragile_ and _boring_ -”'

'I'm not fragile _or_ boring,' says Treavor.

'You are, rather,' say Waverly Boyle.

'Waverly.'

'Hello, Treavor' says Waverly, smiling, 'this is my friend Tatiana Norbury. Tatiana; this is Lord Treavor Pendleton, an old friend of mine.'

Tatiana is a broad-hipped, pale-eyed girl with big teeth, maybe twenty years old. She waves her fingers at Treavor.

'Right, uh, Maurice, this is Tatiana Norbury, and my old friend Lady Waverly Boyle. Ladies, this is my cousin -'

'- Second nephew -'

'- yes, thank you, my _second nephew_ , Maurice Comis.'

'Hi,' says Maurice, brushing crumbs from the front of his shirt, 'say, are you Jeremiah Boyle's widow, then?'

‘ _Maurice_!’

‘I am, Maurice, thank you. Now,’ she says, ‘I have a bit of business to discuss with your second uncle Treavor, so -’

‘Maurice, you’ve been eyeing the iced cream vendor since we got here. Here’s -’ Treavor produces a coin of twenty from his pocket and passes it over, ‘- a whole twenty coin, off you go.’

‘You too, Tati,’ says Waverly, and Tatiana loiters, ‘you have your own money, don’t you?’

‘Right,’ Tatiana says, and her smile is tight on her face, ‘do you want one, Wavey?’

‘I’ll have mint, please. Treavor?’

‘I - what? If they’ve got violet, I’ll have violet. Otherwise don’t bother.’

‘Right,’ Tatiana repeats, and she walks off after Maurice.

‘ _Violet_ ,’ Waverly laughs, ‘you’re becoming a parody of yourself.’

‘You’re just jealous that you didn’t think of it. _Mint_ , honestly.’

‘Shut up. Now, about Tatiana -’ they both break off to watch her awkwardly try to converse with little Maurice, canting her hips in a way that must be painful, actually, ‘- if you could help me spread around that she’s sleeping with the younger Lord Howsloe and at _least_ one of his parents, I’d be much obliged.’

Jeremiah hasn’t been dead even six months yet, but Waverly’s already back to her old tricks and out of mourning, chuntering on the backbenches with the best of them.

‘Is that true?’ Treavor asks, and Waverly laughs and claps her hands.

‘Yes! I haven’t worked out which of the parents it is, yet, but I’m thinking of inviting them all to dinner - will you come? It’ll be fun.’

‘You’re _wicked_.’

‘I’ll take that as a “Yes”, then. And, while I’m at it, are you free tomorrow evening? To play chess?’

‘I’m sure I can squeeze you into my schedule.’

Oh yes, and that’s still happening.

‘Excellent.’

Maurice’s over-loud voice carries back to them, then, mid-flow and showing no signs of stopping -

‘Not all whales have baleen, you know, that’s why it’s so expensive. The slaughterhouse sell my mother pieces of jaw about this -’ he holds his ice cream cones a little less than shoulder width apart, ‘- wide, but we take the teeth out ourselves because _not only_ do they charge a _great deal_ for it, they also make a terrible mess of the bones.’

‘Gosh,’ says Tatiana.

‘Then, twice a month, the ‘Seers come and take away all of the waste whalebone. Did you know that they use it to make bread and soup for the poorhouses? It’s true. They have to strip all the chaos from it, I don’t know how, but then they boil the bones into stock and then grind them up for flour. Bet you didn’t know that!’

‘That can’t be true,’ says Tatiana.

‘It is! I had to see them do it, last time I told a lie.’

‘Are you in the habit of telling lies?’ Waverly asks as she takes her mint ice from Tatiana, and Maurice actually shrinks under her tone.

‘Not especially, Lady Boyle. It was just a little joke, but my common friends are really rather stupid. Ah, Treavor, “Violet ice for the lady”, that’s what the ice vendor said,’ Maurice giggles at Treavor’s glare, then grows silent.

‘I didn’t know you were related to a corseter, Lord Pendleton, Maurice has been telling me all about the business.’

‘Comis and Son Corsetry, Hardy Street in the Estate District,’ says Maurice in his best selling-voice, ‘ _I’m_ the son.’

‘Wow,’ says Tatiana, ‘and are you good?’

‘Madam, we could make Mr Joseph fit into one of Treavor’s shirts,’ Maurice says, and Tatiana falls about laughing.

‘That’s not as much of a boast as it used to be,’ Waverly says, and Treavor knows that - he’s seen Mr Joseph - _unclothed_ \- in the Serk Baths off of Draper’s, and been fairly horrified by the man appearing to be sitting in a puddle of his own skin. There’d been a great, flapping wing of flesh draped off of his arm as he’d waved him over - Treavor suspects that he’s dying.

‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘we have to be off. Suit fitting, you know?’

‘Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?’

‘Definitely. Bye-bye!’

Treavor and Maurice watch the two women walk off - Waverly’s delicate steps and Tatiana’s forced hip-swing, and Maurice inhales the last of his strawberry ice.

‘That Tatiana’s a piece of work,’ he says, ‘did you know she’s sleeping with Lady Howsloe _and_ her son?’

-

Father has been in a very bad way since his fit - but he still hasn’t died and it was over two years ago now. Treavor is starting to think that his Father is immortal. He sleeps with his whalebone runes under his pillow, now, and seems to think that his sons don’t notice.

Well, maybe Custis doesn’t notice, because he’s chosen to act as though Father is dead - it’s fairly simple to just avoid and ignore him now that he’s bed-ridden, and really, only the servants need to bring him drinks and meals and such (Treavor _assumes_ that his father eats, though he hasn’t seen evidence for a good six years now).

Still, it’s strangely comforting for Treavor to sit by his Father’s bed and chatter on without the fear of Custis coming in to fight him. It’s sad, Treavor thinks, considering how close Custis and Father were - and Custis really was his favourite no matter what he said - Father never really cared for sports or showiness but Custis has always been good, old-fashioned clever. Maybe ruthless, but doubly smart to make up for it. Custis doesn’t see Father, so Morgan doesn’t either. Or, he _says_ he doesn’t, but every time Treavor visits Father half-expects it to be Morgan, so he’s probably lying. Sentimental shit.

Father is admiring Treavor’s new haircut, running his fingers through the short sides appreciatively. Fashions are changing, and Treavor can see the long curled hair he’d worn for the past few years going out the window completely - he’s just starting the trend. He’d visited the barber’s shop with three of his young friends from Parliament, and they’d all got matching cuts - he’s sure every other fashionable man will copy them within the month.

‘That’s much better,’ says Father, ‘very respectable,’ but he seems exhausted by the sensations and lies back on his pillows without another word. The loose skin on his face is over-dry, cracking open, and the rest, tight on his nose and cheekbones like wax, is shot through with broken capillaries - sometimes Treavor is glad that Father isn’t able to see what a wreck he’s become. He used to be so _handsome_.

‘It’ll be the fashion yet - we could get Frost to cut yours, too.’

Father wheezes a laugh, ‘I can’t say I’ve ever cared for fashions, especially when no-one’s going to see me.’

‘It might make you feel better.’

‘What would make me feel better is a magic cure for these bedsores,’ Treavor squeezes Father’s hand in a way he hopes is comforting. Frost tries to move Father all the time to avoid them, even brought him a fine wheeled chair from the hospital, but Father had got terribly upset after being taken to see - touch, kneel beside - the graves of his first wife and their poor failed babies and refused to leave his room again. He keeps Angelica’s ashes on his bedside table.

‘Failing that,’ Father continues, ‘I daresay a large gin will hit the spot,’ but the full glass is too heavy in his hands so Treavor holds it to his grateful mouth as one might a child.

‘Capital,’ Father says, ‘can you go get Frost for me? I’ll need him in a minute.’

Treavor leaves the room to call Frost, and when he comes back, Father is dead.

Not immortal, then.

-

‘Did you kill him, Treavor?’

‘No. You know I didn’t.’

‘And here I was starting to respect you.’

Treavor and Morgan and Custis are all standing in Father’s room, looking at his pathetic dead body.

‘Are you sure you didn’t even smother him a tiny little bit?’ Custis asks.

‘No! I told you - he had a gin, and then he asked for Frost. I went to get Frost, and when I came back… he is - _was_ \- very old, you know.’

‘I know, I know. Outsider’s eyes, but what are we supposed to do with him?’

‘Damned if I know,’ says Morgan, ‘probably get a message down to the funeral people.’

‘We should -’

‘Should _what_ , Treavor?’

‘He’s got _runes_ under his pillow.’

‘Get rid of them, then, you prick! I’m not incriminating myself with that shite.’

Treavor doesn’t especially want to incriminate himself with that shite either, but it’s not as though he’s actually going to be incriminated. They’ve got far too much money. Custis is being a wet blanket.

‘Fine,’ he says, and makes a show of pulling them out from under there - all four of them, and he is older and more sober than the last time he touched them, which makes them worse somehow, and their lightness is frightening and _hungry_ , sticky against his fingertips. He makes a show of not being bothered by this, and piling them into his arms as though they weren’t heretical artefacts, and then he makes a show of saying, ‘It’s not as though they’re _ours,_ anyway.’

Custis makes an annoyed noise, ‘I’d say, with him dead, that they really are _ours_. Don’t worry, you can have them.’

‘Fuck off,’ says Treavor, ‘I’ll give them to the Abbey.’

Treavor doesn’t give them to the Abbey.

-

Father’s funeral is a lovely affair, and a lot of people come. They’re all there - The Empress, and her ubiquitous Attano, Cousin Celia and her lovers, Anna and Maurice and Michele, the Jacquets, the Boyles, the Brisbys - you name them.

‘It’s the event of the year,’ says Waverly, sipping champagne under her dark veil, ‘he was the last of a generation, you know. He was, what, a hundred?’

‘He was eighty-two.’

‘Well, precisely. He was much older than my Daddy, or Brisby’s, or Monty’s -’

‘- _Monty_? You know how much I hate Shaw.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ says Waverly, looking at her nails, ‘and you know how much _I_ hate _Brisby_ , and yet - here we are.’

Here they are, indeed. Timothy tries his best to be comforting, but his father is nearly thirty years younger than Treavor’s was, no-where near dying, and his mother is still alive, _and_ he doesn’t have siblings, so he doesn’t really understand anything.

Something strange is happening with the title, Treavor doesn’t really understand - something to do with the fact that, under the Abbey, Morgan and Custis are essentially a single person, but also - damn it, he doesn’t understand - not at all. It’s over-complicated, but as far as Treavor can see it means that all of them have ended up being officially Lord Pendleton to shut a lot of bureaucrats up. Treavor doesn’t mind, and if Custis takes up whatever power the name has on its own, anyway - it doesn’t really change anything.

Timothy pulls him aside as he’s leaving, patting his breast pocket conspiratorially, ‘Are you coming to the club, Pendleton? I’ve brought _the girls_ with me, if you’d care for a game.’

‘My father just died,’ says Treavor, as though he’s not dry-eyed and quite ready to forget about the man.

‘Oh,’ says Timothy, ‘of course. You know I - I mean, if you want to talk, or, you know, take your mind off of things -’

‘I’d rather not, Timothy.’

‘Okay,’ Timothy agrees, ‘I’ll leave you to your grief.’

Treavor very much wants to be alone with his grief, which means that he can’t go home. He’s suddenly adrift in the world, without anyone - _anyone -_ to protect him. As worthless as Father often was, he was a symbol, the one glowing beacon in Morgan and Custis’ eyes that said _don’t kill your brother_. The thought of going home is very frightening right now.

So, in short, he’s absolutely not going home.

-

An hour after the funeral, Treavor is at home. This is absolutely not him going back on his promise to himself - he’s leaving as soon as he can get Wallace to come with him.

‘My Lord,’ says Wallace, evenly, ‘you’ve rather lost me, I’m afraid.’

Treavor does his best not to sigh petulantly, ‘We’re leaving, before Custis realises there are no repercussions for killing me!’

‘Leaving to _where_ , My Lord?’

‘Someplace that no-one would think to look for me, at least for this evening. They’re _drunk_ , I don’t trust them tonight, okay.’

Wallace says something that could be “You’re _also_ drunk,” but then he stands a little straighter and asks, ‘ _Where_ , My Lord.’

‘I don’t know, someplace _common_. That pub Waverly used to watch dogs at.’

‘The _Hound Pits_? My Lord - I - are you _sure_?’

‘Yes! What a brilliant idea! Wallace, let’s go!’

‘ _My Lord._ ’

‘Wallace?’

‘Don’t you think you should get changed?’

‘A disguise! Brilliant idea, Wallace!’

-

The Hound Pits public house is not an especially imposing building, square on the corner of two streets. At the end of one of these streets there is an old apartment building that Treavor remembers seeing in the newspaper once - there’d been a bad flood and the river had soaked into its foundation, ruining the integrity of the whole building. There’d been a very dramatic illustration of the thing crumbling into the river, the Watch and some Overseers standing guard while a woman cried into her apron. Sad.

Treavor tugs on the lapels of his disguise and carefully practices his character - ‘Alright, _mate_?’ he tries, canting his shoulders to one side and opening his hands, ‘Al _right_ , mate?’

‘My -’

‘Wallace! We’re in disguise, you fool. Remember, you’re my uncle, and we’re from Potter stead.’

‘Potterstead,’ Wallace repeats. He’s also had rather a bit to drink - mostly to pass the time while Treavor got his disguise together, and then another to calm his nerves at the thought of taking a damned _Lord_ to a commoner’s pub. He opens his body language a bit -

‘I’m alright, mate, you alright?’

‘That’s good, Wallace,’ Treavor says, running a nervous hand through his hair before replacing his rumpled cap at what he feels is a jaunty angle. His disguise has been taken from a box of Wallace’s father’s clothes, which are all a bit moth-eaten and damp-smelling, but, seeing as Barty Higgins was rather more narrow-shouldered than his son, a slightly better fit. He steels himself, and pushes through the pub door.

Treavor’s always gotten the impression from stories that a working man’s pub on a working night is loud and raucous, a fight in every corner - but inside the Hound Pits it… really isn’t.

It’s busy - there are maybe thirty men of varying ages in the room, running the gamut from mid-teens to their seventies or eighties, tiny, hunched, toothless geezers and strapping dockworker boys. The booths are mostly filled with women, little three- or four-person needlecraft covens, balls of yarn penned between glasses. The woman behind the bar catches his eye as soon as he enters, and winks.

‘Alright, mate?’ Treavor says as he passes a few of the larger blokes to slump over the bar, and the barmaid gives him an indulgent smile.

‘You alright, my love?’ she asks, still smiling, and Treavor knows she’s already sussed him, ‘Not seen you here before, what’s the name, then?’

Treavor thinks of his utterly hopeless father, who’s - however indirectly - responsible for this little excursion, and says, ‘Alfr - Alfie. Alfie Trevor.’ That’s a common enough sounding name, and he should recognise it as his own - ‘Just moved in from Potterstead.’

‘Alright, Alfie Trevor from Potterstead, what’re you drinking?’

Treavor squints at the handwritten menu she slides across the bar at him, ‘I’ll have a - a whiskey, please, love. And an ale for my uncle,’ he adds, cocking his head in Wallace’s direction.

‘Your uncle,’ says the barmaid, amusement playing in her eyes, ‘That’s twenty coin, sweetheart.’

‘Menu says sixteen.’

‘Funny, that,’ says the barmaid, ‘twenty coin. _Sweetheart_.’

‘Oh, _right_ , my mistake,’ Treavor has, thankfully, collected every damn coin he could find before leaving the manor - he pays her in the smallest denominations he can, five ones and three fives, smiling wickedly at her grimace.

‘Cheers, _love_. The name’s Lydia, if you’re wonderin’ - I run this fine establishment for the Admiral.’

‘Huh,’ says Treavor, ‘the Admiral?’

‘Admiral Havelock of the Navy - you heard of him?’

The name rings a vague bell - one of those veterans whose name gets thrown around at Parliament - Treavor goes for saying, ‘don’t know much about the Navy in Potterstead’, and Lydia laughs.

‘Alright then, Alfie Trevor from Potterstead, what’re you doing in Dunwall?’ Treavor waves Wallace over as Lydia pulls his ale, takes a sip of his whiskey and says -

‘Got a new job.’

Wallace’s face is one of cold terror.

‘Yeah?’ says Lydia.

‘Yeah. Gristol teacher up at the girl’s school.’

‘The girl’s school,’ says one of the men lingering at the bar near him, ‘that’s a bit of posh.’

‘Yeah,’ says Treavor, and laughs in what he hopes is a self-depreciating manner, ‘I’m practicin’ my diction, though.’

‘Ha!’ says the man, ‘You’re good ‘n all. Thought you were a right nobber.’

‘Cheers,’ says Treavor, clinking his tumbler against the man’s pint glass, ‘I’m Alfie.’

‘I heard. Name’s Rich, on account of I ain’t.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Treavor says, draining his glass, ‘Lydia, whiskeys for me and Rich, eh?’

He’s interrupted a girl from one of the crochet clubs, getting a round of sweet wines, and she scowls at him -

‘And I’ll foot the bill for these lovely ladies, too.’

‘You’re feelin’ flash,’ Rich remarks as Treavor digs for change in his pockets.

‘To new friends, right?’

‘Nice one. Say, your uncle’s not looking great, mate.’

Wallace is white with - what? Fear? Idiot. Treavor’s a great liar.

‘Don’t mind Wal - he’s mute. Drink your ale, Wallace.’

At least that changes his expression, to a really hateful frown that he puts firmly in the head of his beer.

‘You work near here, Rich?’

‘Aye, loading the ships up Marrow Wharf. Good work, when you can get it.’

‘Hard work,’ says Treavor, taking the new glass Lydia passes him, ‘respect that. I were bit by a snake as a kid. Never much use for lifting after that.’

‘Tough,’ says Rich, and then he looks to the doorway and roars, ‘Oi! Our Bill!’

Our Bill roars back at Rich, clapping his shoulder when he meets him - ‘I won a proper hand of Nancy today, lad! Lyds - whiskey for everyone in this bar!’

Lydia looks at him coolly, and Treavor sees her eyes dart over the heads of everyone in the room.

‘That’s four hundred sixty coin, Bill.’

‘Fuck,’ says Bill, diving in the pockets of his trousers as one of the old girls knitting in the corner booth calls, ‘We don’t like whiskey, Bill!’

‘Gin for the ladies, then,’ says Treavor.

‘With gin it’s four hundred twenty-two, Bill.’

‘Alright Lyds, calm it, I got… three hundred, twenty, thirty, five… three hundred thirty-five.’

‘You got the other eighty-seven?’

‘I’ll pay it,’ says Treavor, and Bill says, ‘Good lad!

‘Who’s this, Rich?’

-

Wallace crawls into bed at three in the morning, and finds that his mother, beside him, is still awake.

‘Wallace Alan Higgins, have you been drinking?’

‘I’m forty-three, mum.’

‘You _have_ been drinking!’

‘Mum…’

‘After His Lordship’s funeral, Wallace!’

‘Lord Treavor made me take him out,’ Wallace argues, stifling a yawn, ‘needed to get away from those lunatics. You know how he gets.’

‘Wallace, I shan’t hear you talk about your masters that way,’ she pauses, and takes back the covers that Wallace has pulled over himself, ‘Probably for the best though. They rather went on a rampage.’

Wallace grunts a reply.

‘I want no hangover complaints from you, my lad.’

Another grunt.

‘I hope you didn’t take the poor boy anywhere unsavoury.’

Really, it’s pointless to ask. Wallace is fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about how long & disjointed this is... lmao. sorry about how long it's taking me to write this damn thing, if you've been here from the beginning... jfc... im so sorry. if you're new, welcome, don't get ur hopes up but!
> 
> basically it's my new years resolution to get this thing finished. going by my plan there should be about four or five chapters left, so!!!!! alright!!! we're getting places. please leave me a review if you can be bothered. I'm super-bad at motivating myself and I'd love to know what you like and what you think is shite so i can incorperate that later hahaha, thanks guys.


	17. xvii

If Treavor had to put a date to the time when things started to go really wrong - _really_ wrong, really terribly awfully wrong, he’d name the day that Custis comes home early from a state dinner.

He is _screaming_ , even as he pushes through the main doorway - Treavor peeks out of the library as Custis yells again, balling his overcoat up and throwing it onto the floor.

‘That _cunt_!’ he shouts, and he jumps onto the coat a few times, then kicks it toward the left branch of the staircase, ‘That traitorous fucking _cunt_!’

Treavor considers the merits of being found spying, and decides it’s not worth the trouble. If he owns up now, it might look natural, and it might be over quick and painlessly.

‘Are you okay, Custis? Do you want a drink?’ he holds out the crystal decanter he’s been enjoying a fresh white from, and a clean glass - Custis stomps over to take them, then drains the bottle and throws it at the floor between them, where it shatters.

‘Custis?’ says Treavor, backing away until he hits the couch arm.

Custis looks murderous, and he weighs the wineglass in his hand before throwing it at Treavor’s head. Thankfully, he misses, and the glass sails over Treavor’s shoulder and smashes against the fireplace.

‘Can you believe,’ says Custis, breathy in his rage, ‘our own brother! A traitor!’

‘Morgan’s a traitor?’

‘Yes!’ Custis roars, and he moves his hands as though to throw something else, but he doesn’t _have_ something else - ‘He - he - Attano threw me out! He didn’t do a thing, Treavor, a _thing_! Let him!’

‘Attano?’

‘Morgan! Attano picked me up - he _picked me up_ with his filthy great hands, and Morgan just sat there!’

‘ _Why_?’

‘Because he’s a damned traitor! To me! His own brother!’

Custis is red in the face. He looks disgusting.

‘I mean, why would Attano pick you up?’

‘Because,’ says Custis, twisting his hands over the front of his waistcoat, ‘because he’s a dirty Serk bastard and a Social Idiot, who can’t hear humourous inflections in a man’s voice!’

‘Humourous - Custis, what did you _say_?’

‘I merely asked after the father of young Princess Emily - if he was coming, if he was already _there_ …’

‘Custis, that’s - that’s basically _treason_!’

‘Oh, shut it. Jessamine and I were friendly as children, you know.’

‘Well, you’re not children anym-’

‘Shut it, Treavor!’ Custis has gotten so close that his breath is hot on Treavor’s face, though he notices with satisfaction that Custis has to tilt his face upwards just a little to keep eye-contact. Custis walks him back until he’s pressed against a bookcase, until Treavor is forced to remember that the twins have taken to wearing damn swords strapped to their hips (which, among other things, is very unfashionable).

Custis’ fingers play on the silver-plated hilt of the ridiculous thing, just a little too long to be wholesome, and then he _smiles_ , a horrible disarming thing with his lips stretched over his (admittedly low) gum-line. Treavor stares at Custis’ tiny little teeth, and then Custis pushes away and swings his sword in an experimental arc.

‘Whatever am I to do, Treavor?’

Treavor sidles along the bookcase to increase the distance between them. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Me neither!’ says Custis, and he grips the hilt with both hands to bring the blade tip down into the wood flooring. ‘Imagine my predicament - my respectable brother just humiliated me in public, and the other is _you_.’

‘You know, I’m not that bad.’

‘Yes you are.’

‘Okay, well, as I see it, _Attano_ humiliated you, rather than Morgan. Perhaps -’

‘I told him he was leaving if I was thrown out and he turned his head away! He didn’t even acknowledge me! His own brother!’

Custis is chopping a great hole in the parquet. He continues, ‘You concede then - he humiliated me, as sure as Attano did.’

‘I suppose.’ Treavor watches Custis carve into the floor. It’s Pandyssian hardwood, and it’s going to cost a fortune to replace, but Treavor’s smart enough not to say this, just as he’s smart enough not to mention that if anyone humiliated anyone, Custis humiliated himself.

Morgan arrives four hours later, soaked to the skin and almost as furious as Custis was.

‘I suppose he told you what he did.’

‘Yeah.’

Morgan stops dead, then, squeezing rainwater out of his hair by running his hands tight over his head, and he takes in the carnage that remains of Custis’ tantrum. Treavor has his cravat tied around his hand.

‘If anyone deserves to react like this,’ says Morgan, ‘it’s me. He took the carriage. I had to walk home. What’ve you done to your hand?’

‘Nothing, it - it’s not deep. Just a scratch really, my own fault, waving my hands around.’

‘You’re stupid,’ says Morgan, bending to examine part of the floor where Custis has carved the word “CUNT” in awkward, triangular letters, and he uses his own blade to amend it, laughing darkly at his handiwork, and Treavor chuckles, too.

‘Cuntis,’ he snorts, ‘he’s - he’s really angry at you.’

‘I imagine so. I don’t know what he expected me to do, really. The Grand Duke’s _daughter_ was there. And it’s not as though - augh! The thing is, we look the same -’

‘I’ve noticed.’

‘- Don’t get smart, you little shit. We look the same. People will think that I’m _him_. Every stupid thing he does comes back on me because no-one can tell us apart and they could never imagine that _Custis_ , who’s so clever with his _accounts_ , could be the loudmouthed fucking moron asking whose bastard’s going to take rule once Jessamine’s gone.’

‘That won’t be for a while, yet,’ says Treavor, and Morgan just hums.

‘What I’m saying is, it’s not as though we can afford to get on her bad side, not any more. You know we’re -’

‘- running out of money, I know.’

‘You know,’ says Morgan with a nod, and then he looks to Treavor’s hand - ‘are you sure that’s going to be okay? You’ve ruined that cravat.’

‘I’ve got more. It’s really not deep, it just - you know when it doesn’t stop _bleeding_.’

‘I know,’ Morgan pauses to run a hand over his slicked-back hair, and says, despairingly, ‘I really don’t know how I’m going to forgive him.’

‘Don’t,’ says Treavor.

‘Wha -’

‘Just _don’t_. We could get rid of him.’

‘Treavor,’

‘Make it look like an _accident_.’

‘Treavor!’ Morgan punctuates this by punching Treavor in the fucking face. The enormous ruby on his middle finger breaks the skin over Treavor’s cheekbone, like a puncture.

‘Outsider’s salty bollocks, Treavor! I mean, what’s wrong with you? _This_ \- this is why I forgive Custis, I remember, it’s because my _other_ brother is a fucking lunatic!’

‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ Treavor cowers, both hands bloodied now, covering his swelling face, but Morgan is already walking away.

-

The very next morning, Custis calls a Pendleton Silver business meeting. Besides Morgan, the whole family looks like trash - Treavor with his nasty black eye and scabbed cheek, his left hand wrapped in a fresh but rapidly-darkening bandage, Custis hung-over and red-eyed, stubbled and weary-looking. The various regional managers and stocking managers and product design managers file in, looking nervous.

‘Gentlemen,’ says Custis, who is sitting at the head of the long table with Morgan at his right, ‘I realise that this is short-notice, however -’

One of the designers on Treavor’s left, Mr Warling, opens his mouth, but Custis speaks over him -

‘I do apologise, but it is quite urgent. I’ll start like this,’ he motions to his left, where a grey-haired gentleman with long whiskers is seated, ‘Mr Partridge, your service to our family’s company has been admirable. However, you’re fired.’

The table erupts, and Custis raises his voice to speak over them, ‘Mr Yates! Your design work has been impeccable, however, you’re fired.’

‘Lord Pendleton, please, I - the Yates have been designing Pendleton Silverwork for over two hundred years! You can’t -’

‘I can! Mr Grey -’

‘I’m fired.’

‘Yes. Mr Warling -’

‘We’re all fired?’

‘Yes. Get out, please.’

Treavor stays put as the fifteen men around him get up, seething, and Custis adds with a bored drawl -

‘You will be paid until the end of this month, and I will provide references on request. Good luck, gentlemen!’

Yates spits on the table, and Custis glares at him until he leaves, teeth bared, and then he turns on Treavor.

‘Treavor! You’re fired too.’

‘You can’t fire me,’ says Treavor, and Morgan flicks through the large folder in front of him until he finds Treavor’s contract.

‘He’s right, you know.’

Custis says, ‘Augh!’ and stands up, walks to the door and opens it, and the men who are listening outside the door scarper. Custis slams it again, then locks it.

‘We’re tremendously fucked,’ he says.

‘Tremendously?’ asks Morgan, and Custis returns to the head of the table, searching his folder. He spins a large piece of squared paper into the centre of the table, where it sits like a curse. It’s marked with hundreds of small black Xs, and three lines - two smooth parallel curves, and one straightish, on the negative axis. Custis points out the black curve and says,

‘That’s our profit. For the time being, but, look -’ he has another graph, where the black curve smooths into a straight line at around 200 coin.

‘That’s my prediction, as best I can tell - that’s using the last four years’ data. We’re on a negative exponential, it - the multiplier’s not much, point one-ish, but still, as far as I can see, we’ll make no more than the baseline in less than two years, that’s the two hundred, and that’s - that’s assuming a hundred people, removing three cubic metres a day, that’s - that’s the price of fucking dirt, essentially.

‘Statistically, every six hundred or so cubic metres of dirt should have fifty coin of - of actual money in it. A precious stone or, an artefact, something like that, but that’s statistical, ground-level dirt, and I’m not going to factor fucking chance into this although it could, actually -’ he pauses to scribble something on the edge of his graph, ‘- I’ll have to get back in touch with the geologists from the Academy.

‘The point is, I fired those fuckers, because they’re just draining us at this point. That puts our baseline up to 950 - that’s dirt. But that’s including silver products, which is… most of our revenue. Surplus will run out in three months - three months! Abberline Jewellery will contract us for that, they’re going to buy our jewellers, and then-’

Custis rubs a hand across his eyes, despairing, and takes a third graph from his folder, where a rocky line trails to four hundred coin for the foreseeable future. Morgan visibly gulps.

‘Less than two years, and the mines will be completely dry. I don’t even know how this happened! Some of our mines stretch under the sea, now. The sea! There should be something there!’

Morgan puts his hand over Custis’, comfortingly, and Treavor says, ‘Can we dig deeper? Rather than along? The pressure -’

‘No! The tools we have can’t process the granite layer fast enough, and they’ll be damaged quicker too - we can barely afford to even replace our ordinary tools at the rate they degrade… fuck.’

Treavor chews his nails.

‘I’m going to try… our great-grandfather Boris gifted some land to a few families… I might be able to get that back. If those mines are untouched, which they probably are, we could get the profits to dig deeper, and our current mines might actually make some money in… ten years or so… fuck! I’m not going to try to plug this with the family money - we do too much of that already, so… we’re not getting paid, okay? The money’s going back in the bank. No more payouts, no allowance - whatever you’ve got saved, that’s what you’ve got -’

‘- I haven’t got anything saved!’

‘- That’s your own fucking fault! You get your allowance end of this month, like those bastards, and that’s it, Treavor, I’m not fucking around -’ Custis and Morgan give him twin stares from the opposite end of the table, and he squirms.

‘Why didn’t you tell us it was this bad?’ he asks, and Custis cradles his head in his hands again -

‘I didn’t know. I really didn’t know. It’s progressing so fast I couldn’t tell what the trend was - it could have been the post-Fugue slump for all the data was telling me, up until these past few months -’

‘- I thought you were good at this!’

‘- I am good! That’s why we’re discussing this here, in the boardroom, instead of under a fucking bridge, in the dumpster we live in! I’m good at this, don’t you forget.’

-

Cousin Anna moves to Whitecliff. She says it’s not worth staying in Dunwall now she’s bought a new Comis & Son store up there - with a better workshop and less competition in Whitecliff it does make _sense_ , but - fuck, Anna is a good corseter, and the apprentices she’s left with the Dunwall store aren’t as _sensitive_ as she is. One of them actually laughs at him, when he comes to pick up his hose pads - there’s nothing wrong with wearing hose pads! They’re a necessity for the fashionable gentleman cursed with unfashionably skinny boy’s legs.

The real reason Anna is leaving, though, is the whisper that suggests a disease passing through the lower classes in Dunwall.

It’s a quiet thing, comes in from no-where, and can destroy a family in a week, apparently. The people who get it, though - this is the worst thing - they don’t just _die_. Treavor’s heard that they start to bleed - a haemorrhage or something, from their mouths and noses and _eyes_ \- he doesn’t want to think about it, actually.

Actually, everyone does a very good job of not thinking about it. The official line is to drink your elixir and try to avoid poorer areas of the city. Insects swarm over the apartment buildings in dark, undulating clouds.

-

The Empress misses Parliament on little Emily’s ninth birthday, in Rain, and Treavor sits beside Mr Joseph, who has gained back a great deal of weight but somehow looks even worse than he had after that terrible diet he’d taken a few years back. He shakes Treavor’s hand and doesn’t speak, and his face looks like a skull draped in loose, soft fabric.

Today’s debate is about the import price of Tyvian grapes, and it is astoundingly boring. Custis loudly humiliating the Hamm shadow chancellor is about as interesting as it gets, everyone theatrically booing the stupid man back into his seat - at least, until the boos end but Mr Joseph is still making a sound:

Not quite a hiss, close to a groan, he doubles over so his head rests on the back of the bench in front, and Treavor shakes his shoulder and he _means_ \- he really means to say something like ‘I think we need a doctor!’ or ‘Help, please!’ or even, ‘Mr Joseph, are you alright?’, but what comes out of his mouth is -

‘AAAAaaurghhhh Outsider’s TITS!’

\- and everyone turns around just in time to see Mr Joseph belch a stream of blood down himself - a real stream, and real blood, thick and stinking, soaking his white suit in dark blooms.

Treavor’s making a whimpering noise, wheeling backwards along the bench, and Mr Joseph holds out one bloodstained hand in a desperate plea - he heaves, and a - a _mosquito_ flies out of his dripping mouth and, oh fuck, did that _hatch_ in there? It must’ve, in the wounds left by fallen teeth, that Treavor can _see_ , raw and festering - and so _many_ of them, stars.

Two city watchmen come and hold him back, and then a third - Mr Joseph is a _large_ man - beats him about the head with his cosh until he stops struggling, or, actually, moving entirely. A dribble of dark blood clots stick to the corner of his lips, and the first two watchmen haul him out of the chamber with hands locked in his underarms. The third wipes his bloodied bludgeon against his trousers and holds out his grimy hand to Treavor.

‘Thanks for alerting us, mate.’

‘... uh-huh.’

‘You’re gonna be alright? Taken your elixir?’

‘... Yeah.’

‘Yes, yes!’ calls Burrows, who’s been overseeing this meeting in lieu of the Empress, ‘we’re on a tight schedule, so if everyone could settle down…’

There’s a lady crying somewhere behind Treavor. Treavor _might_ also be crying. Not much, though.

‘Settle down!’ says Burrows, frustrated, ‘Grapes. From Tyvia.’

_Grapes_ , Treavor mouths back at him - he is watching, and nods smartly back. Treavor wipes his sweaty forehead and his handkerchief returns spattered with blood.

-

‘Outsider’s tits,’ says Waverly when she catches him shivering in a chair outside of one of Parliament’s grand bathrooms.

‘F-fuck off, Waverly. It was horrible.’

‘Outsider’s _tits_ , though. What was that?’

‘You didn’t - don’t! There was all this blood, and it was on my face -’

‘You’ve missed a bit,’ she says, and reaches out a single finger to touch his brow, and removes it to her mouth.

‘What - no - Waverly, that’s _diseased_!’

‘I was joking. You’re clean.’

‘That’s not funny. I might _die_.’

‘You’re not going to die.’

‘I’ll get it, I swear. Just add to my list - diphtheria, whooping cough, pneumonia - do you remember when I had tuberculosis?’

‘You didn’t have tuberculosis. You had a _cold_.’

‘You’re not a doctor.’

Waverly doesn’t say anything, but she sits in the chair beside him, humming to herself.

‘Outsider’s tits.’

‘Stop.’

‘Outsider’s _heaving bosom_.’

‘ _Waverly_.’

‘Outsider’s voluptuous breast-’

Treavor spins in his chair and tries to shut her up with a desperate kiss, but she’s faster, slamming her hand into his face.

‘You’re _diseased_.’

‘Waverly, _please_ ,’ he lowers his voice to a whisper, ‘can we - you know, go someplace?’

‘No. I’m being courted, now.’

‘You used to be _married_.’

‘To an old invert with erectile dysfunction. My answer’s no.’

Treavor sighs, leaning back in his seat.

‘Who’s courting you?’

‘A lady never tells.’

‘A friend does.’

Waverly’s face screws up in serious thought before she stands up and leaves.

‘We’re not friends.’

-

Today has been dreadful, and Treavor is going to get absolutely hammered. He’s in disguise, pockets weighed down with all of the cash he could find, and he’s going to drink an entire bottle of whiskey.

That’s the plan, anyway. He hasn’t been back to the Hound Pits for a couple of months but they still know him - still know Alfie Trevor there.

When he enters the pub, Bill crosses the room in earnest, and punches him in the fucking face.

‘Where the fuck were you?’

Treavor puts a hand under his nose to try to staunch the blood flow, fuck.

‘What? When?’

‘Rich’s funeral, you cold cunt! His niece invited you, where the fuck were you?’

Oh, fuck.

Thing is, Rich couldn’t read, and he couldn’t write. Treavor had given him the address of one of the family-owned apartment rooms, years ago, and forgotten about it. He’d never even thought about going to collect Alfie Trevor’s mail, because an illiterate man couldn’t send it.

His literate niece, on the other hand…

‘Fuck, Bill, I didn’t know! I got evicted.’

There’s a sick joy in watching Bill’s face crumple - ‘Oh, Alf, I’m sorry -’

‘- And - and my wife just died.’

Treavor can’t help but keep escalating his lies every time he comes back to the Pits, which is why he hasn’t been back recently. Alfie Trevor’s wife is - was - a lovely blonde-haired lady called Wendy.

She’s dead now. Treavor imagines watching her, Waverly’s face, spitting blood onto her white trousers, summons that and “we’re not friends” to the very front of his mind. He’s a very good actor.

‘Fuck, Alfie,’ says Bill, hoisting Treavor off of the floor with an arm around his shoulders, ‘was it… plague? Like Rich?’

‘Uh-huh,’ says Treavor, working hard on keeping his lower lip trembling pathetically, ‘I didn’t even notice before -’

‘I’m sorry, Alfie -’

‘I - I bought her elixir, but she was giving it to urchins -’

‘ _Void_ , a good woman, that. You sit down, I’ll get you a drink - Lyds! Lyd- Oh! Evening, Admiral.’

‘Evening, Bill. Lydia’s just stepped out for a bit. What can I get you?’

Treavor’s never seen the Admiral Havelock before, so he tries to make his gawking as nonchalant as possible. The Admiral looks like everything a military leader should be - strong, broad about the shoulders, grizzled by years of weathering at sea. His face is nearly bisected by a deep scar, and Treavor can’t help but wonder where he got it.

‘Just a couple whiskeys for me and Alfie, thanks.’

‘Alfie? I was under the impression that you were gonna “smash his ugly face in”.’

‘Well, I done that already - turns out I were mistaken,’ he lowers his voice, ‘he’s lost _everything_.’

‘It’s bad out there,’ agrees the Admiral, putting the glasses on the bar a little too roughly - the whiskey sloshes up the sides and separates into thin trails; say what you like about the Dunwall brew, it’s fucking strong stuff.

Treavor wishes he had some, three days later in Parliament. Waverly is talking, loudly, but he can’t drag his eyes away from the bloodstain on the floor - inexpertly cleaned, it guilts him as though it were a ghost. Morgan punches him on the arm.

‘Pay attention,’ he hisses, and Treavor raises his bruised face to glare at him, ‘eugh -’ he breaks off to applause as Waverly sits down, ‘- that’s coming up really nasty, you know.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Don’t start. What’re you staring at, anyway?’

‘The floor. Look!’

‘I’m not seeing anything.’

‘The bloodstain -’ he traces its outline in the air above it, ‘- Mr Joseph -’

‘Oh, Outsider’s Tits, I remember.’

‘Fuck off.’

Treavor goes to the reading of Mr Joseph’s will - Mr _Dennis_ Joseph, and who fucking knew that. He’d always assumed his first name was _also_ Joseph, or perhaps _Josef_ , Tyvian style. Mr Joseph leaves Treavor three beautiful suits that he might be able to use as ostentatious circus tents, and fourteen hundred coin, which is just enough to save his life in his looming, allowanceless future.

Jessica Shaw - nee Finch - is there, having also held the title of Mr Joseph’s favourite teenager, but Treavor doesn’t think she really shows enough emotion, all things considered - probably because she only gets an antique vase in dire need of restoration, that Treavor knows won’t match any of her manor’s interiors.

She deserves that.

What really interests Treavor is pushing through research on a cure for this - this plague. It’s not _contained_ , and it frightens him, but Burrows is strangely reticent on the subject - he didn’t like Mr Joseph, though he does concede with the majority in Parliament demanding that the other Isles are contacted, and eventually it is decided that Attano, and certain members of the Watch, should become an official envoy to ask for aid.

It seems like a good choice, ultimately, though the Empress is reluctant to give up her bodyguard, Attano is a respected member of the old Serk Guard with a great deal of knowledge about the cultures and languages of the other Isles, so he’s actually more likely than any of the aristocracy to make a good impression on behalf of Gristol.

He’s sent off a hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying so!! hard!!! to get this written hahah, god. Next chapter finally veers into something approaching canon, can you believe it, it's only taken me three years :') I'm excited to be getting near the end though :)
> 
> Please please leave me a note if you read this, 'u suk' is very acceptable, tho if you could tell me where i suk that would be appreciated, i love you all. Biggest thanks to Gigi for reading this over for me, again, she's an angel, can you believe i know an actual angel? amazing. thanks everyone!!


	18. xviii

Honestly, Treavor is not entirely sure what happened with Attano. No-one is.

He comes home from months at sea and just - just murders the Empress - his Master, his lover. Treavor feels as though some great detail from the story has been left out, because it doesn’t seem to make any sense. It’s only been a week since the Empress was murdered, and already he can feel things slipping. At Dunwall Tower, Jessamine’s sweet blue flag flies at half-mast, and Regent Burrows’ red-and-black waves above that, still crisp and snapping in the wind.

‘It’s a bit much,’ Morgan says, ‘to still be in mourning after a week.’

They’re going to Parliament, all three of them, for the first time since - since Jessamine and Attano; he has to keep biting his tongue not to call him “Lord Attano” - Attano the murderer.

‘She was family,’ says Treavor, tugging on the lapels of his Void Suit, removed from his wardrobe for a very good purpose, he feels.

‘Not close family,’ says Custis, ‘you look like you’re kissing arse.’

Treavor shrugs at that - perhaps he is. It certainly wouldn’t do the family any harm to kiss arse, especially in times such as these.

The Parliament chambers are foggy with cigarette smoke - Morgan and Custis push in to sit on the front bench, having apparently been promoted in Burrows’ esteem in the past few months, and Treavor manages to wedge himself against the far edge of the same bench next to a woman with an unfashionable bustle skirt and apparently no clue on the significance of the benches - everyone’s here; people with seats out in Redmoor have come down for the re-opening - there are people sitting in the aisles and standing around the door, packed tight into the chamber. Treavor hadn’t even thought that there were many more members of Parliament than the sixty or so he sees on a regular basis. It’s summer, and the room is uncomfortably clammy under the smoke, and when Burrows arrives it’s as though he parts the cloud, clear in the centre of things.

‘My friends,’ he says, just once, but silence suddenly falls around him, ‘I’m glad for your support - it’s imperative that the country, and this city, remain stable even under these intense circumstances.’

Parliament murmurs appreciatively at that, and Burrows continues, ‘I’m sure many of you have heard of certain members of the military trying to take rule by force -’ the murmurs are louder now, disgruntled, ‘- settle down, I know it’s very distressing. However, myself, our esteemed Prime Minister, the High Overseer and High Oracle have all agreed that, in the hopes of preserving continuity, I will act as Lord Regent until such time that our Fair Lady Emily is found and restored to the throne.’

Spontaneous applause breaks out, from both sides of the chamber, and Burrows holds up a silencing hand.

‘Thank you. It is my firm belief that our military’s efforts should be focussed purely on the search for Lady Emily - whether she was taken someplace by Attano before his senseless attack, or she simply ran away, she has been missing now for a whole week and not yet ten years old -’

The bustle-skirted woman next to Treavor begins to sob at that -

‘- with this disease plaguing the city, it is terribly dangerous for her, which is why I am proposing an evening curfew city-wide, to be voted on next week -’

The Hamm leader stands up, interrupting, ‘Lord Burrows, I daresay a sensible measure like that hardly _needs_ a vote -’

‘- Thank you, Lord Featherbright, but acting in such an irregular fashion with regards to our noble institution -’

‘All those in favour,’ calls Custis, ‘say “Aye”.’

The response is deafening.

‘Ah,’ says Burrows, and he looks a little flustered, ‘they do say the boldest measures are safest.’

‘Hear, hear!’

‘I propose -’ starts one member of Parliament, and another begins to shout over him ‘- No! _I_ propose -’

‘Shut up, Gerald, I propose -’

The Speaker makes an irritated interjection - ‘If the Honorable Lord Derwent would remember to refer respectfully to his opponents -’

‘I propose,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘that we post members of the Watch, or our additional soldiers, I suppose, about the city at checkpoints, we may be able to inhibit the movement of Lady Emily’s kidnappers -’

‘We should gate the districts, requiring identification before people are able to move -’

‘- Walls of light!’

‘- Blockade the streets! Those damn rats -’

‘Settle _down_ ,’ says Burrows, and someone says, ‘Yes, Lord Regent,’ and doesn’t that fit? Doesn’t he wear that role well?

He does; perhaps not as well as he wears Spymaster, but certainly well enough for two hundred people to yell _Aye_ at his every suggestion for the safety of Lady Emily, the whole chamber buzzing with manic energy, and whatever that scoundrel Attano did will be payed back in blood twice over, Emily restored, and the Empire safe once again. He’s certain.

-

Later, he’s less certain.

Jessamine’s flag is gone, and poor Emily has been missing a whole month and a half, and Burrows’ flag and his hawkish profile seem to loom a great deal more over the city. Treavor personally believes that the stark banners proclaiming ‘ORDER WILL PREVAIL’ are just a bit much, really

Treavor wonders where Jessamine’s flags have gone - were they stolen? Stored? Burned? There were a great number of them, and what of the flags of her predecessors, of Euhorn and the Olaskirs?

Puzzling.

Today, Treavor and Morgan are taking the carriage to Parliament, dutifully signing in and out of each checkpoint they pass. Custis has fobbed them off with some tale of a _distracting_ tonsil stone, and Treavor really isn’t inclined to look inside his throat for lies.

Custis hasn’t been entirely well lately, bothered by the same arthritic hands that had plagued Father for over half of his life, long before the cold months normally set him off. The city business the Lord Regent has set him leaves him short-tempered and irritable whenever he returns late in the evenings, complaining that his talents are wasted around simpletons from the courts. Treavor’s glad for his absence.

Parliament is barely quieter than it was, though now almost everyone gets to sit down - Morgan drags Treavor down beside him on the front bench, wringing his hands in uncharacteristic impatience.

‘I have to talk to the Lord Regent after this session,’ he says, ‘don’t take the carriage - you could use the exercise, at any rate.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? I can stick around.’

‘A lot of business,’ says Morgan, ‘best not to.’

‘What business? Custis’?’

‘Big Boy stuff, Treavor, don’t worry yourself.’

‘I’m a Big B- fuck you, honestly.’

Burrows arrives with his entourage - which Treavor hasn’t been invited to join for _months_ now, what’s that about? - the Prime Minister raps on the lid of the box until everyone’s quiet.

‘First order of business,’ says Burrows, ‘is that the criminal Corvo Attano still refuses to sign the confession -’

‘Hang him!’

‘Would that I could, Lady Gertrude - you know the law. One cannot act until the criminal confesses, or six months have passed. This was one of our Lady Jessamine’s laws, and it has proved instrumental in -’

‘ _Hang him!_ ’

‘Lord Farrow, Attano is a military man - he will be court-martialled when the time comes.’

‘There were _witnesses_!’

‘I know, Lord Kepler, I was one of them! You cannot imagine how much it pains me -’

‘Disgusts me to see him go unpunished!’

‘I assure you,’ says Burrows, ‘he is being punished.’

An appreciative silence falls at that. Attano is being punished.

‘Next business is to inform you that, following the vote last week, the following acts have passed: Creation of a blockade around the Old Port district, to be completed before the first week of Rain, armoury of the stilt-walkers with incendiary weapons, in order to obstruct the movement of those “weepers”, the banning of all horses within the outer city limits –‘

‘Fuck!’ says Morgan, thumping the bench.

‘You voted _for_ that act.’

‘I know, but I _had to_. Fuck! I don’t know how I’m going to get Molyneux and Herschel out of the city – _fuck_!’

‘You could send them to Cousin Anna –‘

‘- another of a great number of favours I’ve asked of her recently. Her generosity is going to run out –‘

‘- favours?’

‘Nothing important,’ Morgan says, and he gestures toward Burrows, who is still listing Parliamentary acts –

‘- the movement of a second Watch troop to the junction of Holger Square and Clavering Boulevard, and, finally, the erection of another blockade on the west end of Draper’s Ward. Do we have any discussion of these new acts?’

‘Yes, uh, Lord Regent – what material are these blockades made from?’

‘As before, Lord Cannon, they are steel – mostly reclaimed from ships that are no longer seaworthy.’

But who’s reclaiming this steel, and how, and where – and how could the country possibly afford these grand gestures just protecting one city? Treavor’s hardly the economic whizz Custis or the Chancellor are but - wasn’t the country in a recession already? He can’t help himself - he’s standing up.

‘Lord Regent, if I may ask how the city is funding these acts? With our current economic depression, one can’t help but wonder -’

‘It’s in hand,’ Burrows interrupts.

‘- if such acts would cause a budget deficit -’

‘ _It’s in hand_ ,’ Burrows repeats.

‘- if you’d pardon me, I’m not sure we’ve seen any reduction in weeper numbers since the blockades, as the nasty fellows still move around the sewers -’

‘Lord Pendleton,’ says Burrows.

‘- and if the rats _are_ spreading the plague, shouldn’t we work on exterminating them first -’

‘ _Shut up_ , Treavor,’ says Morgan –

‘If the honourable Lord Pendleton would remember to refer to his brother respectfully –’

‘Do be quiet, Treavor,’ says Burrows –

‘If the honourable Lord Regent would remember to –’

‘You too, Dubrov.’

Dubrov flounders then, because it’s not really the Speaker’s job to be quiet – he looks at Treavor who sits down with an utterly mutinous expression.

‘Now,’ says the Lord Regent, feeling Parliament’s attention on him – ‘a number of you have asked me about those military men who attempted a coup in the early days after poor Jessamine was murdered.’

‘Hang them!’ says Lady Gertrude.

‘Lady Gertrude! Once more I must remind you that members of the military are executed by court-martial! Besides, it has been agreed that these men – who were previously under house arrest – be stripped of their rank, ejected from our noble Army and Navy, and noted forever in our histories as committers of Treason.’

‘But not executed?!’

‘Not executed,’ he raises his voice to counter the loud decries of this policy, ‘I believe a life knowing they were in the wrong would be far greater punishment.’

‘Pah!’ says Lady Gertrude, ‘at least _name_ them –’

‘The names,’ the Lord Regent says, ‘are as follows: The former General Harold Paxley, the former Major-General Frederick Barnes, the former Admiral Farley Havelock –’

Treavor _knows_ the former Admiral Farley Havelock –

‘- The former Commodore James Freighter, the former Admiral Matthew Phelps –’

Outsider’s eyes, but the list goes on – there must be over twenty of just these high-ranked officers, and Burrows doesn’t even bother to mention any of their subordinates, where did they go wrong? What were they planning that’s so much worse than Burrows draining the country’s finances?

Well - he knows one person to ask.

-

‘Wait here,’ he says to Wallace, and then, with great purpose, he knocks three times on the pub door.

‘We’re closed!’

It’s a man’s voice, low and slightly slurred. Treavor knocks again.

‘The fucking pub is closed! We’re shut! We’re _finished_!’

Treavor knocks again, and is rewarded by the door opening a crack, and a flinty eye peering out.

The voice behind the door that Treavor hopes is the Former Admiral Farley Havelock scoffs in disgust, and the muzzle of a pistol is slipped between the door and its frame. Oh.

Wallace can’t stay put, he inserts himself - just one shoulder - in front of Treavor, and the sudden shield gives him the confidence to say:

‘Admiral Havelock?’

‘What’s it to you?’ says the voice behind the gun.

‘I heard about -’

‘My treason? What’s this - vigilante justice?’

‘I’m one man, unarmed. Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘What do you _want_?’

‘Honestly,’ says Treavor, ‘to buy you a drink.’

The pistol is retracted, a few bolts and chains slide, and the door is opened fully.

‘You hate him that much,’ says Havelock, and it’s not a question.

‘Truly,’ says Treavor, ‘he’s the worst ruler we’ve ever had.’ The gun’s still pointed at him - ‘you coming, Wallace?’

The Pits is quiet without customers, every creaking floorboard of the old building suffocatingly loud. Havelock passes over to the bar.

‘Whiskey good?’ he asks, unscrewing the bottle top and pouring two generous measures into dusty glasses, ‘cough up - this cost me.’

Treavor leaves a handful of coin on the bar, which Havelock sweeps up with one large hand and pockets, leading them both to one of the booths where the lady’s clubs would meet.

‘You gonna give me a name, then?’

‘Oh! Treavor - Treavor Pendleton -’

‘- like the silver?’

‘- yes.’

‘Fuck me. So you’re _Lord_ Pendleton.’

‘Technically, but - you needn’t, Admiral.’

‘Not an Admiral any longer, thanks to that bastard. I’ve been on the sea for nearly forty years - to have that _stolen_ from me -’

‘Vile,’ says Treavor, because the gun is resting on the table between them, ‘he’s doing an awful job.’

‘Well of course he is! Only a Military rule is apolitical, for starters, and that’s one of the most important things about a Regency. That _bastard_! You know he’s blockading us in the Old Port? No-one’s seen hide nor hair of that poor little girl, either.’

‘It’s terrible,’ says Treavor, taking an appreciative sip of the whiskey, ‘as far as I can tell, we’ll be bankrupt before this plague lets up - refuses to answer my questions, too. Mocked me in Parliament like I was a fool for asking.’

‘Not right,’ Havelock agrees, batting the gun further away to place a leather pouch on the table, ‘you smoke?’

Treavor smokes, but he thinks of Parson and Partridge’s fine rosewater scented cigarettes in his pocket, and he thinks of Havelock’s unapologetically manly face and he says, ‘care to share?’

‘Go ahead,’ Havelock grunts, neatly rolling thin paper around the tobacco and sticking it into his mouth, ‘guess you nobles can’t all be that bad - we all roll our cigarettes the same.’

He pauses to take a narrow book - Treavor recognises it as one of the Regent’s propaganda pamphlets - from the seat of his booth, and he offers it, open, ‘suppose you fancy folk use a _filter_ \- this shit’s dense enough for a roach.’

‘Thanks,’ says Treavor, fumbling with the tobacco and paper in a way that he hopes doesn’t look too unpracticed, until the sound of a door opening makes him jump and he spills the stringy tobacco all over himself.

‘Leave it out, Lydia,’ says Havelock, ‘I’m not drinking myself to death all alone.’

‘First time in weeks,’ says Lydia, and with the attention off of him Treavor manages to scrape his cigarette together - it’s lumpy and loose, but it’s not the worst thing he’s ever smoked.

‘Who’s this th- Hang about, Alfie _fucking_ Trevor? I knew it!’

‘Uh.’

‘Trevor?’ says Havelock, and then, ‘Treavor?’ the silent A heavy in his mouth, ‘So you’re a liar.’

‘Ah -’ says Treavor, and his gaze drops again to the gun on the table, ‘- _was_ a liar. I’ve been nothing but truthful since I got here - this time.’

Lydia just looks disgusted, ‘I think he’s telling the truth this time,’ she says, ‘and who’s this? Your “Uncle”?’

‘My _valet_ , if you must. I’m hardly the only person to slightly - ah - _embellish_ their past at a bar, am I? It’s not _illegal_ to want not to humiliate oneself.’

‘If I may interject,’ says Wallace, ‘milord has only visited these premises on the best of -’

‘- Wallace, shush!’

Wallace shushes, and Treavor takes a too-fast drag on his cigarette; through the uneven filter it’s hot, and burns his lips. Havelock crosses his arms over his prodigious chest - and Treavor’s only ever read ladies’ chests being described as prodigious but really that’s the only word for it, and Lydia scowls and says, ‘I’ll get your man a drink, then.’

‘You’re not lying now,’ says Havelock, a command more than a question.

‘Not lying now.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, I ended up chopping a chapter in two and hecking up my story outline but!!!! here's a chapter! i'm exhausted but hopefully 19 should be coming soon? i've already half-written it? thanx to the peeps at the creative circle for the moral support while i wrote this - i'm getting there! I'm getting there.
> 
> once again, like, pls leave a comment, i know im thirsty as heck 4 the comments but. honestly.


	19. xix

Havelock’s easy enough to talk to, for all his bluster; spirits make it even easier to ignore his occasional faux pas. Their conversations all follow a familiar rhythm - one of them complains, the other responds with ‘That bastard!’ and offers a complaint of their own. Even the gun that still sits on the table is less threatening once Havelock admits that it’s not loaded -

‘They thought they took all my weapons from me, but not old reliable here - she stays in the bar. Got no ammo, though. They thought I’d kill myself - as if I would.’

‘As if you would,’ Treavor repeats, deep into tonight’s third glass of whiskey, ‘that bastard.’

The Old Port District is scheduled for blockading next week; Burrows’ plans have fallen behind, _again_ , but Treavor finds himself nothing but glad for it - that’ll show that bastard. It also gives him a little more time to figure out how he’s going to get into the Old Port District once the blockade’s up - Havelock refuses to meet him at Pendleton Manor.

Havelock - the Admiral - _Farley_ , for he calls him Treavor so why not, forgoes the Stressed Gentleman’s hobby of pacing for endlessly rolling cigarettes, but at least that means that Treavor can simply snatch one from the pile at the centre of the table, which he does.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Farley, stacking another cigarette and unfolding another paper, ‘about what you said about Attano.’

Treavor can’t recall what he said about Attano. He says ‘Uh-huh.’

‘Well - if that little girl - if that little girl Emily is truly his daughter, and Jessamine his lover.’

‘Oh,’ says Treavor, ‘yeah.’

‘Well, I pose the question: why would he do such a thing? Kidnap his own daughter, kill the very woman he’s sworn to protect?’

There’s been much discussion of this at Parliament, ‘That bastard Burrows claims that the sea turned his mind,’ says Treavor, and then, ‘that bastard,’ he reiterates, for Farley will not hear a word against the sea.

‘That’s bullshit, and you know it. Even supposing that he _was_ mad - how does a man kidnap a child within five minutes, never leaving the pavilion?’

‘Perhaps he had an accomplice.’

‘An accomplice!’ says Farley, sealing his cigarette and placing it on the pile, ‘You see, we’re getting somewhere! Suppose Attano won’t confess because of this accomplice -’

‘- Burrows would have asked about that, surely.’

‘That _stupid_ bastard - When Euhorn was assassinated there was a public trial. You’d get a lot more out of Attano under oath with a thousand people watching him.’

That idea’s disquieting.

‘Suppose Burrows doesn’t want the truth out of Attano.’

They lock eyes - it’s so obvious it couldn’t possibly -

‘Suppose Burrows was the accomplice,’ says Farley.

‘Suppose Attano was _Burrows’_ accomplice,’ says Treavor.

‘Suppose Attano wasn’t involved at all.’

Treavor’s eyes are dry from staring Farley out. He blinks hard.

‘Suppose we’re right,’ he says, and Farley looks down, thoughtful, and rolls another cigarette.

-

Farley and Treavor are brilliant, and Treavor is going to die. This little monologue had seemed very clever when they’d written it up over the last few nights but now - _now_ , in Parliament’s bright hall with the paper clutched in his hand - he’s not entirely sure how safe this is.

It really is a clever speech. It’s _reasonable_ , first and foremost - it neither accuses nor assumes. At its very worst, it might suggest that not all of the evidence has been reviewed, but that’s the worst. Morgan and Custis are elsewhere; Treavor is representing the family, and the Pendleton family are nothing if not clever.

‘It’s coming up three months since our Fair Empress was murdered by her most trusted bodyguard,’ says Burrows, ‘and coming up three months in which the Murderer Corvo Attano has refused to sign the confession. Although the law does not allow his execution - I _know_ , settle down - please be heartened to know that he is not going unpunished. Now, if there is no more discussion of this -’

That’s as good of an opening as Treavor’s going to get -

‘- If I may, Lord Regent?’

There is a great rustling of coats as everyone turns to look at him.

‘I - I suppose, Lord Pendleton, please, go ahead.’

‘Right,’ Treavor wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers, and unfolds his note with a pointed cough, ‘I’ve been speaking to some local people -’

‘- What?’

‘- Local people,’ says Treavor, turning to the lady who interrupted, ‘business owners and - and shopkeepers and such -’

‘- why would you do a thing like that?’

‘Lord Wallington, please allow Lord Pendleton to speak.’

‘Thank you, Honorable Speaker: I have noticed a worrying trend of _confusion_ in my conversations with these Common folk.’

‘Confusion in the common folk,’ says Burrows, ‘how novel,’ and Parliament laughs.

‘Confusion - with regards to Attano’s arrest and imprisonment.’

Shouts. Treavor raises his voice.

‘And confusion with regards to the whereabouts of Lady Emily.’

‘We’re all confused!’

‘No,’ says Treavor, ‘with regards to how Lady Emily could have been removed or lost from the scene of the crime, and why Attano won’t confess.’

Burrows’ throat bobs.

‘How so?’

‘There is some belief that Attano couldn’t have acted alone.’

‘Absurd!’ says Burrows.

‘A few suggested a public trial, as with Euhorn Kaldwin’s assassins -’

‘- Out of the question!’

‘- may force Attano to fully confess to his crimes, being under oath -’

‘No!’ says Burrows, and an ugly flush is creeping up the sides of his bald head, ‘I won’t allow a dangerous criminal out of his cell simply because some Common people are _confused_.’

‘My Lord Regent, rumours have begun to spread that Attano wasn’t responsible at all - that he was framed.’

The chamber inhales. Burrows says ‘Obscene! You forget that I was there! That I saw the blood upon his blade! That I watched as he was arrested - he knew what he had done!’

‘My Lord, the implication is not that you are wrong, but that you have been deliberately _mislead_ \- if Attano failed to properly fight off this assassin -’

‘I was there!’ says Burrows, louder than ever, and as Treavor opens his mouth to add a few more points from his notes Burrows yelps like a kicked dog - ‘Shut up, Treavor!’

It’s a disgusting, uncivilised noise, and it gives way to utter silence. Dubrov glares at Treavor from his high seat - there’s certainly nothing he can do. Wide-eyed, Treavor says, ‘My apologies, Lord Regent. It was never my intention to cause distress - it’s - it’s a trying time for all of us. I -’ he doesn’t know how to complete his sentence. He can’t sit down. He can barely stay standing. He gives a respectful half-bow and strides as quickly as he can from the chamber.

Everyone watches him go.

He closes the tall doors behind himself and leans against them, heart pounding. What was he thinking? Outsider’s eyes, but he needs a smoke - he fumbles in his pocket with shaking hands, and the Overseer guarding the door makes a sympathetic noise.

‘Incendiary rhetoric in there, my friend.’

He speaks so low that at first Treavor isn’t sure he said anything at all - he looks sharply at the man, and the man - he assumes, it’s hard to tell anything under those masks - looks back.

‘Did you mean what you said?’ the Overseer continues, voice rattling in his golden mask - Treavor straightens up, watches him, and then, with practiced slowness and deliberacy of movement, walks toward one of the large bathrooms in the corridor off of the hall. He pushes the door open, and with one final, meaningful look to the Overseer, shuts it quietly behind himself.

For a long time, he is alone. His hands eventually calm down enough that he can find his cigarette case and lighter, and when he finishes his first he chains to another, hopping up on the counter by the sink.

‘Brother Seamus, would you take my post for a little while? I have to use the facilities.’

The voice is muffled by the door but clear enough, and his boots make clean striking noises against the marble floor as he approaches.

‘Of course, Brother Martin,’ says Brother Seamus, and Brother Martin sidles in through the unlocked bathroom door, locking it behind him.

‘You did -’ says Brother Martin, tugging once on the door handle to check the lock, ‘- you did mean it.’

‘I wasn’t sure,’ Treavor admits, ‘I am now.’

Brother Martin exhales so hard the holes in his mask whistle. He reaches up with one gloved hand and unclips it at the back, hanging it over the taps of the sink. His face is slim for all his broad shoulders, surprisingly stubbled and handsome. He presses a hand to his own chest, staring Treavor in the eye, and says, ‘I think -’

Then pauses, and shakes his head.

‘- I have reason to believe that the High Overseer is involved.’

They’re still eyeballing each other, but Treavor can’t help the wicked smile that spreads across his face. He sticks his hand out.

‘Treavor Pendleton,’ he says, ‘a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

Martin smirks at that, and grips Treavor’s hand firmly, ‘Teague Martin. It’s an honour, my lord.’

-

Bringing Teague to meet Farley goes about as well as can be expected - if one expects to be shoved up against a wall with the barrel of a pistol pressed into one’s jaw.

‘Pendleton!’ the gun is cold, and Treavor rather regrets buying Farley ammunition for it, ‘Have you lost your mind?’

‘Farley - _Farley_ \- _Admiral_ -’ the gun slides over his jawbone and up into the soft hollow behind it, ‘- this really isn’t -’

‘The Overseers are the Regent’s men, you lunatic!’

‘Not me,’ says Teague, and the gun is taken away from Treavor’s throat and pointed at Teague instead.

‘Prove it.’

‘Prove it? I just endured a clandestine meeting with a man who got thrown out of Parliament -’

‘- I did not get thrown out of Parliament!’

‘- You got thrown out of Parliament?’

‘I left of my own accord.’

‘It sure sounded like you were kicked out -’

‘What did you say?!’

‘Exactly what we wrote - exactly! Burrows absolutely _lost it_ -’

‘That bastard,’ says Farley.

‘Yes! Well, then Brother Martin heard it all, and he says -’

‘He says?’

‘I say, “I think The High Overseer was involved.”’

‘Do you?’

‘I do - the man’s a fraud, keeping his position by blackmail. I half expect _he_ has the Lady Emily hidden away.’

‘Outsider’s _eyes_ ,’ says Farley - he looks thoughtful, and clips his pistol back onto the magnetic holster on his chest, ‘you really mean it.’

Martin is visibly annoyed, ‘No, I just really fancied being held at gunpoint; Of course I mean it! It’s plain for anyone to see, frankly.’

‘I knew it,’ Farley produces a rather fine bottle of whiskey, pouring it into three glasses, ‘I _knew_ that bastard was up to no good.’

‘The High Overseer?’ says Treavor.

‘All of them! Campbell, Burrows, fucking - the Prime Minister, probably -’

‘I don’t think the Prime Minister’s that good of an actor -’

‘- well, Burrows and Campbell for sure - you’re sure about him, Overseer…’

‘Martin. Teague Martin. As sure as I can be; I know ten men or more under his thumb by blackmail -’

‘Ward us all,’ says Havelock, ‘but what are we going to _do_?’

A funny look crosses Martin’s face, something that Treavor doesn’t fully recognise.

‘We _stop_ them.’

-

The cut on Treavor’s hand hurts. It might be getting infected - they’d all washed their hands with whiskey afterward, but the scab is hot and tight on his palm, rough against the grip of his rifle.

It’s insane, the whole thing; completely mental, that it’s taken them barely two months to scrape together a whole band of conspirators - an inventor, a boatman, inside eyes on Attano in the prison.

Two nights ago under the haze of nice strong booze, a toast to all the parts of the plan slotting together, and then another, and then a third, the pact had seemed fitting, momentous even, with the low light and the candle and and dark scent of blood in the flame. He tries not to think about the madness of it - not to use the word madness lest Waverly’s voice flit into his mind, _the Maddest person I ever met_.

It’s the month of Darkness, and there is a little over a month for their conspiracy to get Attano out of the prison before the Empress’ six-month rule runs out. Madness - no, not madness; Vision.

‘Thirty-three,’ says Morgan, tamping the powder into his rifle with an airy move, ‘we’re older now than Jessamine ever was.’

‘Don’t be irreverent,’ Custis snaps, ‘it’s not funny, and besides - I don’t want to be thinking about any of that city business at the moment, watch out -’

The pot-shot he takes at the pheasant goes wide, and the bird heaves itself gracelessly into the air -

‘- worth a try -’

\- and Morgan shoots it down perfectly, neat in the arc of its flight.

‘- Void-damn you, show-off, on my birthday as well -’

‘- _Our_ birthday,’ says Morgan, imperiously, but he smiles as he goes to collect his prize, and returns, swinging it triumphant by its legs, ‘I think that’s a new record! First shot!’

‘As if we’re lacking for pheasant, anyhow - I fancy the woods this time of year; in fact, I fancy we stalk a boar, if we see one, what do you think?’

‘I would _love_ to stick a pig,’ says Morgan, looping a knot of rope about the pheasant’s ankles, ‘capital idea. Hey, Treavor’s man, carry this, would you -’ he slings the miserable bird at Wallace so quickly he barely has time to react, and laughs when the fumbling catch means Treavor’s ramrod and powder end up on the ground, and Treavor shrieks like a little girl:

‘Wallace, you dumb _hagfish_ , for fuck’s sake!’

Wallace is mercifully silent as he collects up the dropped items, and the twins march off through the long grass, cackling. Treavor gives Wallace an exasperated look -

‘Don’t dawdle now, Wallace. Those two want to get themselves _gored_ , so I’d better be nearby to save them.’

He walks off without a second glance.

Morgan manages to bag two rabbits and a hare, out in the woods - Treavor takes the occasional shot at… sparrows and such, but his heart isn’t in it, and Custis does eventually hit what appears to be a mink, or something; Treavor hadn’t known there even _were_ wild mink in Gristol. There is a rustling in the undergrowth, and all three of them look up suddenly. Treavor catches a glimpse of horns, and brambles and bracken shuddering and parting behind the creature.

‘A stag!’ says Custis, right as Morgan says, ‘A hart!’, and Treavor looks between the pair of them, unimpressed, and says, ‘A deer?’

‘A really fucking _big_ deer - I want his head!’

‘What?’

‘I’m going to take down Boris’ stag in the dining room and replace it with _him_ , come on!’

Morgan goes careering off through the path left by the deer, so Custis follows him, and Treavor has to follow the both of them, grumbling. He doesn’t know where they are or where they’re going anymore, and the turfed-over ground is slippery with clay -

‘There’s been a pig through here,’ he yells, hoping to divert them, but Morgan slides around on his heel and says -

‘I don’t give a _shit_ , you saw that deer! We can’t be far now.’ He’s slowed down, and Custis walks alongside him, whispering back and forth in that way Treavor had always hoped they’d grow out of, or at least grow to include him in.

He tries to get closer; the tall nettle Morgan had pushed aside with his ramrod pings back into Treavor’s face, stinging, he falls back into step beside Wallace, itchy and bored. The path through the bracken widens to a copse dense with trees, and the autumn leaves are old and soft underfoot.

The twins wheel around in tandem - they must have heard something, and Morgan says, ‘Stay still,’ quite suddenly, ‘it’s right behind you.’

‘It?’ Treavor tries to turn to look but -

‘Don’t move - the deer!’

Treavor twitches back into place, and Custis says, ‘Right,’ lining up his shot. Treavor gets the horrible feeling that the gun is pointed right at him -

‘Can’t you move a little? I’d be out of range if you-’

‘- Shh! No!’

It really does feel as though Custis is looking directly down the barrel at him, no matter what he says.

He closes his eyes as Custis pulls the trigger, flinching, and he hears the shot around the same time as he feels it, sharp and agonising in his left shoulder.

‘Fuck!’ he says, and Morgan and Custis shout, ‘Fuck!’ simultaneously as he backs, backs, backs away to slump against a tree. It is silent. There never was a deer behind him.

‘You moron!’ says Morgan, sprinting in Treavor’s direction, ‘That was practically point-blank!’

Wallace is already there, palm pressed to Treavor’s shoulder which _hurts_ , by the way - really hurts, Outsider’s _eyes._

‘Fucking _idiot_ ,’ yells Morgan, and he almost trips as he turns to address Custis again, ‘how did you even _manage_ -’

‘Okay,’ says Custis, who is taking his pace as a leisurely stroll, ‘do you think -’ he trails off into a mutter, and Morgan says something that might be ‘- stupid - suspicious -’

‘You _shot_ me,’ says Treavor, and - is he in shock? It feels as though he might be in shock - _fuck_ but being shot hurts more than anything he’s ever experienced - fuck!

‘We didn’t mean -’ says Morgan, and he rubs a nervous hand over his own chest ‘- it was a joke!’

‘Yes,’ says Custis, ‘a joke.’

‘A joke!’ says Treavor, ‘I’m laughing!’ he’s not laughing, and the forest is horribly quiet.

‘Look,’ he continues, after an uncomfortably long pause, ‘just - just fuck off. I’m going back.’

‘We didn’t mean -’ Morgan says again -

‘I don't - I don’t even care what you meant - you _shot_ me.’

There’s a suppressed sob bubbling at the edge of his speech but that’s shock, okay, it’s just shock.

‘Calm down,’ says Custis -

‘ _Calm down_? I’m being awfully calm for a man who just got _shot_! Get off of me, Wallace, we’re going.’ He manages, after a few desperate attempts, to push himself upright and away from the tree, cursing and trembling with the effort.

When he makes it as far as the next tree, he has to prop himself up, and - and never mind the blood, the blasted hole in the shoulder is enough to ruin this outfit, brilliant.

Over his shoulder, the twins are still staring dumbly at him.

‘Go on,’ he says, over the throbbing in his ears, ‘fuck off!’

Morgan claps Custis on the arm and turns away, and Custis mimes taking another shot - he _knows_ it’s a mime but that doesn’t stop the involuntary full-body twitch that makes him lose his balance and end up sprawled on the forest floor.

‘Fuck,’ he says, and now he’s covered in mulchy leaf litter, and has he mentioned that his shoulder hurts, recently? Because it _hurts_.

‘Milord,’ says Wallace - it’s the first thing he’s said this whole trip, with an admonishing note to his voice, ‘you oughtn’t try to stand.’

‘You oughtn’t try to stand,’ Treavor parrots miserably; he is trying, but his body is improbably heavy to hold up even with his good arm and he falls back onto the ground, disgusted.

‘My Lord,’ says Wallace again, the note in his voice passing through concern and straight into nervous, and Treavor finds he can’t rightly glare at a man whose face is so grey with worry.

‘I can’t,’ he says, pressing the side of his face into the cool mulch, ‘I _can’t_ -’ and then the shock is speaking for him and he says, ‘- I’m _scared_.’ He closes his eyes tight against the shame, and he barely stirs as Wallace gathers him up into a humiliating bridal carry.

‘We’re going home now,’ says Wallace, tightening his grip; and though he isn’t as strong as he used to be, there’s some unseen energy that spurs him through the forest and the field and the long gravel path. ‘You know,’ he says, though he’s sure Treavor isn’t listening, hissing with every step they take, ‘your father saved mine’s life, like this.’

‘My father did _what_?’

‘He saved - saved my father’s life, when he was shot.’

‘Your father was shot?’

‘I - yes, my lord. In the war. Shot right in the thigh, it’s why he walked with a limp.’

‘He walked with a limp?’

Wallace bites back an ungracious reply, it’s not His Lordship’s place to observe such things in a servant, how dare he - ‘Yes, my lord. Your father carried him out of the fray, and saved his life. He never forgot that.’

‘Huh, I didn’t know,’ says Treavor, closing his eyes again; perhaps it doesn’t have the same effect on the life-saver than on the -savee; perhaps His Lordship forgot, but Wallace feels something keen and bright and wonderful through his own fear and fatigue, the pain of a corset bone digging into his forearm.

  
It feels like repaying a debt, or perhaps keeping a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hopeless at getting things written, once again there should have been more of this chapter or something but I hecked up royally again. Thanks 2 my friends for looking this over for me, you're angels and tru buds and I love you with my whole being. As always, please leave me a comment if you got the whole way through this because I'm pathetic and easily discouraged. THANK YOU everyone who's been reading this, it means a lot to me.


	20. xx

In the end, they use a bomb.

It’s terribly loud and obvious, but for all Piero’s talk of _magnets_ and _induction_ and _motor effects_ , his ‘remote door controller’ lies abandoned after it fails its fifth test - he needs more copper wire; they don’t _have_ more copper wire, and even Farley’s been too polite to mention the inordinate amount of time Piero spends on that ugly mask.

It’s a case of biding time, now. The bomb’s in Coldridge, Thorpe has the key, Thorpe’s wife has the money, and Corvo Attano has four days to live unless he gets out in the meantime. The waiting is interminable.

On the morning of the seventeenth, Farley slams his hand down on the bar while everyone’s drinking their coffee.

‘This is it,’ he says, and the assembled Loyalists sit up a little straighter, ‘today’s our last bet - Corvo’s being executed this time tomorrow, so if he doesn’t get out today - we run, and we don’t meet again until we know it’s safe.

‘We’ll need alibis, all of us, going back _months_ \- Treavor, recon your staff could handle another couple of servants?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Good. Piero; you’ve left the home fires burning?’

‘Well, figuratively…’

‘Figuratively, good. Martin -’

‘- Head back to the Abbey, keep my head down, I _know_.’

‘Stay safe, Brother,’ he says as Martin heads for the door, ‘and Samuel, you should head out, too.’

‘Right you are, sir. I’ll bring him back, if he comes to me.’

‘Good man. You got your gun?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right. Spirits willing, I’ll see you later.’

‘And the Cosmos’ luck to us all,’ says Samuel, closing the door behind him. Farley leans heavily on the bar.

‘Fuck,’ he says, and pushes himself back up, twisting to grab a half-full bottle from the shelf behind him, ‘last calls?’

‘I’ll have a double,’ says Treavor.

‘A drink to go out on,’ Farley agrees, and Lydia smacks him with her cleaning cloth as she leaves.

‘Thinking positive, Farley.’

Wallace files out after her, with Piero and the redheaded girl, and Treavor gratefully takes the first glass Farley pours, tapping his fingers against the bar. When Farley’s done with his own, he holds it aloft in a silent toast, and the two of them drink in tandem.

‘We’ve had a good run, right?’ Farley says into his drink, ‘It’s been an honour.’

‘Yeah,’ says Treavor, ‘yeah. We did - trying to make some good in the world, or whatever.’

‘Definitely,’ says Farley, and they lapse into uncomfortable silence. Farley lights up; Treavor lights up; they smoke, they stub out the butts, rinse, repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

The speaker in the street squeals with static, and they both look up. Farley knocks his hand against the bar, Treavor drops ash onto his thigh.

_Attention, Dunwall citizens._

Treavor looks at Farley. Farley looks at Treavor.

_The assassin, Corvo, responsible for the murder of our fair Empress and the disappearance of Lady Emily, heir to the throne, has temporarily escaped state custody._

‘Outsider’s eyes,’ Farley breathes -

_Several brave officers of the state are dead by his hand._

Treavor’s mouth is half-open, lips slack. More ash drops - rolling off of his knee and onto his boot.

_He is to be captured or killed at any cost._

They’re standing now, frozen, and then Farley begins to smile.

‘He’s out,’ he says, disbelief ringing in his voice, ‘he - fucking - you smart son of a bitch!’

Treavor’s never really been _embraced_ before -

‘I - well, _you_ deserve the credit, really. And Piero -’

\- lucky he’s used to the firm crush of a corset against his ribcage, really; Farley pulls apart from him with a rough clap to the shoulder, striding taller than Treavor has ever seen him through the bar and into Piero’s workshop.

‘Piero, I owe you a damn drink. Your bomb worked.’

‘I did say it would,’ Piero’s voice is obscured by the hum of his drill, ‘if you wouldn’t mind -’

‘- Right. You work hard. That mask finished?’

‘Almost, almost; This really is my master work, you know.’ Piero traces the angles of the mask with careful, reverent fingers before bringing the drill down on it again, ‘When Corvo’s here, you’ll see.’

Farley’s jubilation has no direction, and he pauses. ‘Uh, yeah. You sure you won’t join us?’

Piero shakes his head, muttering into the curling swarf on his worktop, and Farley, temporarily stunned, shakes his head and claps Treavor’s shoulder again - his bad shoulder, the one that got shot, but he’s not going to voice any discomfort to Farley.

‘Do you suppose he’s on his way?’

‘One hopes.’

‘Do you suppose he’s read our notes? Got our tools?’

‘Quit worrying - it’s rather late for that.’

Treavor follows him back into the bar, and two more whiskeys are poured and toasted; the clumsy fingers of drink in his mind are enough to quell the thrilling terror also trembling there. The announcement blares again.

‘How long from the sewer to here, along the river?’

‘Ten, maybe fifteen minutes, if the water’s kind. We’ll probably hear them coming, anyway. Will you quit fidgeting!’

‘Right. Sorry. Just - it's starting, at last; we've _got_ him. Even after 6 months in Coldridge, he slipped out like it was nothing.’

Havelock smirks into his glass.

‘Not surprising. He _was_ the personal bodyguard of the Empress.’

‘I know, I know -’

‘You've heard the stories, and we'll know the truth in time.’

They gaze back into their glasses -

‘He’s killed people. Members of the city watch.’

Farley sighs, just a little, ‘And thank the Void for that; this isn't one of your fancy dress parties, Treavor. We need men killed - have you ever killed a man?’

‘Only with my wit,’ he says, and relishes the fond snort Farley stifles with another long drink, ‘but it's a fair point, as always. He'll be here soon and -’

He’s here _now_ , a gale pushing aside the door as he enters. He _stinks_ , and he’s _soaked_ , and honestly - almost unrecognisable. Farley looks at Treavor, and his eyes are wide and bright with more than the revulsion that grips Treavor’s own heart.

‘The man of the hour is here,’ he says, and launches into what is very obviously a prepared speech. Treavor doesn’t have a speech prepared, should he have prepared a speech? He ad-libs it.

Corvo nods with every word they say to him. Up close he’s visibly crawling with lice, his hair and beard matted and greasy despite his dip in the sewers.

‘You believe me,’ he says, eventually, and his voice is rough with disuse or - or misuse, and for a moment he looks as though he might actually cry. Treavor turns away.

‘I didn’t know,’ he says, and his hands shake, filth under his overlong nails, ‘didn’t _understand_. For six months! But Burrows -’

‘That bastard!’ chime Treavor and Farley -

‘- he told me.’

‘Told you?’

‘“In the wrong place, at the right time.” He _told_ me.’

Farley and Treavor share an odd, victorious kind of look, and Corvo slumps, squeezes his eyes shut, and runs a hand over his beard. He doesn’t look well.

‘You must be exhausted.’

‘Yes,’ says Corvo.

‘We - there’s a bed upstairs for you, and a tub - you can bathe, or shave and -’

‘You ought to see Piero first,’ says Farley, over Treavor’s gibberings, ‘he’s the one that made your blade -’

‘- It’s beautiful,’ says Corvo, half-whispered like a prayer.

‘- I think he’s got something else for you, though. He’d like to see you.’

‘Alright,’ says Corvo, and he leaves; not through the door he entered from, back toward Piero, but into the stairwell, and up to the next floor. After a moment, Treavor hears his own voice through the floorboards. Farley laughs into his glass again.

‘Stop that. Is he - do you think he’s going to be okay? He’s in a bit of a state.’

‘Ah,’ says Farley, ‘I wouldn’t worry. We’ve got all the time in the world.’

Corvo sleeps quite solidly for two days, but it takes rather less than all the time in the world. In fact, it’s little over a week before Corvo stops looking like the gaunt spectre he had arrived as.

Treavor watches him restlessly pace the yard, climbing up onto the dog crates and drawing his weapons, each time smoother than the last.

‘Incredible, isn’t it,’ says Farley, ‘I never expected him to recover so quickly. When I saw him before -’

‘I thought we were done for,’ says Treavor, and he chuckles.

‘Have a little faith. Say, did you notice his tattoo before?’

‘Before when? I don’t recall.’

‘Me neither. It does remind me of - something, though. Don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so.’ His mental image of the tattoo is amorphous at best, though, and even when he’s looking directly at it it seems oddly indistinct, ephemeral, and just _what_ it is he can’t place his finger on. ‘Perhaps it’s heretical; a prison thing.’

‘No doubt,’ says Farley, ‘there are thousands of those prison tattoos out there, all with their own meanings; and in a place like Coldridge, they probably have their own.’

They watch as Corvo takes a swinging jump off of one of the dog crates and onto the lean-to roof of one of their neighbouring buildings - he just makes it, clanging his foot against the corrugated metal stacked against it.

‘He’s going to hurt himself -’

‘He wouldn’t, not seriously. The man’s been trained since childhood. He knows his limits.’

Corvo has clambered back onto the dog crate. He braces himself for the jump this time, and once again, doesn’t quite clear it.

‘He’s _loud_ , though.’

‘Which is why he’s _practicing_. Void, Treavor! The worst is over; he knows what needs to be done, he _wants_ to work with us -’

‘I know, I - forget I said anything. I just feel a little - ah, superfluous right now.’

‘Don’t we all?’ Farley agrees, sparking his lighter a few times but failing to produce a light, ‘I’m still waiting on word from Martin, but I imagine Corvo will be good to go in a week, and we can get this show on the road, so to speak.’

‘Still nothing from him?’

On the dog crate, Corvo steps back as far as he can go, and takes a run-up; this time he catches a foot on the top of the tallest metal sheet, and one of the narrower ones falls down with a banging crash. Farley ignores it, still focused on his flameless lighter.

‘Nothing - and don’t you start worrying about that, either. Martin’s a grown man - oh, thank you.’

Farley turns Treavor’s lighter in his hand, examining its slightly dented case. It’s one of those gimmicky spark pylons, tiny prototypal cousins of the ones reducing people to ash in the street. Treavor had got it for his birthday; it lights come rain or shine, and to prove so, Morgan and Custis had locked him out of the country estate during a thunderstorm. Farley lights with a long pull, and returns it.

‘That’s a fine gift; who are C and M?’

‘Custis and Morgan, who else?’

‘Oh. Yes,’ says Farley, and he seems a little abashed, ‘you know you always say their names the other way around.’

‘Do I?’ He does because everyone does, because that’s how they are, standing left to right, matching hands with matching scars turned in to each other; it’s how Sokolov had tried to paint them, in that heretical style - Morgan and Custis, The Twins.

When Treavor meets them that evening, they stand, shoulder-to-shoulder, left to right, Morgan and Custis, The Twins, and they laugh at him.

‘So where have you been?’

‘I could ask the same of you - and besides, I’ve _told_ you: I’m staying at Timothy’s club.’

‘I told you,’ says Custis, ‘he’s become Brisby’s _kept woman_ -’ and Morgan claps his hands over his ears.

‘- Oh don’t make me hear such things. I never thought I’d say it but, Treavor, you can do better.’

‘I’m not Timothy Brisby’s _kept woman_! I’m staying at the club because it’s closer to Parliament; and I’ll note that you haven’t been there in days, weeks even!’

‘We have work to do. We’re very busy and important.’

The meal they share is terse and quiet, served by their two remaining servant girls, who look down and hold their breath whenever they come near. The dark-haired one has a black eye.

Still, there’s a comfort there, one that’s difficult to describe, of his own bed and his own home and his own brothers. At the Pits they think him some kind of wet fop, know him so, but home is where they know that he has teeth and guile and will draw blood if need be.

It’s an innocuous thing, that loudmouth Brooklaine scoffing, “A man who can’t dress alone”, Farley’s talk of Fancy Dress Parties. At home there is none of the creeping shame that lingers after Wallace helps him undress, because at home that is how that works.

Samuel collects them out on the canal the next morning; Morgan and Custis left before sunrise, and Corvo is out scavenging nearby.

‘Hope you like jellied eels, m’lord, because I fancy that’s all he’ll find.’

‘Samuel,’ says Wallace, but Treavor makes eye contact and the rest of his phrase dies on his lips, and he shuffles back into his perch on the boat as Samuel navigates the lock. It’s cold.

‘Do you suppose the river will freeze this year?’

‘Naw,’ says Samuel, shaking his head, ‘the Wrenhaven hasn’t froze up in fifteen years or more, I recon - whaling. All that extra blood in the water,’ he says, ‘salty.’

‘You studied it?’

‘’Sider’s eyes, no, but you learn the water you’re on, don’t you. The ocean never freezes, but it’s colder’n ice in there, burns something wicked. You’d freeze, if you take a dip, but the water wouldn’t.’

‘Oh,’ says Treavor, and rubs his hands together - he wishes he’d brought gloves with him. Samuel drops them off at the pub without turning his engine off, ducking a salute and heading off again. Treavor follows the sound of raised voices into the bar.

‘He’s my uncle!’ says the girl Callista, and her voice is high and broken.

‘And he’s a good man,’ Farley agrees, ‘but tonight is a tall order, you know that. We have to discuss with Corvo, with Martin -’

‘Suppose Overseer Martin isn’t coming back?’ she says, ‘Suppose he’s died -’

‘- Have you heard something?’

‘What? No! I just mean - hypothetically, suppose we have to - to deal with the High Overseer without him. I just - _please_ , Admiral.’

‘I told you, I’ll discuss it. There’s nothing else I can do.’

Callista takes a shuddering, wet inhale and rubs her eyes, ‘I’m sorry, I know, it’s just - he’s my only family. I don’t - Oh! Lord Pendleton! I -’ she covers her face with embarrassed hands, ‘- it’s good to see you again, Sir, I’ll - I have to do some work now, thank you for hearing me, Admiral.’ The back door barely stifles her sob.

‘Is she -’

‘She’s heard that the High Overseer has taken delivery of a poison, and he plans to meet with her uncle tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ says Treavor, ‘Can we - I mean, what can we do?’

‘I don’t know, that’s what I told her - _tonight_ ; Corvo might be amenable but -’

‘Martin.’

‘- Martin.’ Farley pushes away from the bar with a grim expression, and sighs long and hard. ‘You want a drink?’

‘What time is it?’

‘Somewhere past ten, the last I checked.’

Treavor considers this.

‘Might as well,’ he says.

Corvo comes back twice that afternoon, bringing with him tins of damnable jellied eels, potted meat and hagfish. There’s a sack of flour, old and slightly wet, and two tins of apricots in his haul, which Farley gazes at almost lustfully - indeed, as soon as Corvo leaves again he’s cracked one open, scrambling under the bar for forks.

‘The tinned apricot,’ says Farley, gesturing with it, ‘is possibly man’s greatest invention.’

‘Really?’ says Treavor, and though a tinned apricot is truly the king of tinned produce, especially when compared to the jellied eel, he’d rather forgo eating them straight from the tin like an animal.

‘Top ten,’ Farley concedes, spearing another shiny half-apricot from the tin, but he drops his fork as the door knocks.

‘Oh, not again.’ Treavor’s already halfway under the bar as Farley takes to the door, unhooking his pistol from its holster.

‘Who’s there?’

‘Open up!’ comes a surprisingly high-pitched voice, ‘I got a note for Mister Havelock!’

Farley swings the door open and points his pistol into the face of a boy no more than ten years old.

‘How did you get here?’

‘Uh -’ the boy holds his note out at chest height, apparently unperturbed, ‘- you know, east on Young’s Way, second left from Holmbush, then through the flats on Almond Road. Are you Mister Havelock?’

‘Admiral Havelock to you,’ says Farley, and he snatches the note with his free hand, ‘... who gave you this?’

‘He told me you’d pay me.’

‘Son of a bitch - Treavor, get over here and pay the kid.’

Treavor extracts himself gracefully from under the bar, searching the pockets of his coat for coins; he comes up with a ten, and hopes that’s satisfactory.

‘Thanks, though I recon a fancy-dressed feller like you could spare a little more -’ Farley’s gun is back up, in the kid’s face, ‘- or not, ten’s good, you know, I’ll make my way -’

‘Who sent you?’

‘I dunno! An Overseer, name of Windham, I swear, I never read it -’

Farley actually cocks his pistol, and Treavor, suddenly sick with terror, has to turn away.

‘Mister - Admiral, I swear, if this is some kind of secret - I promise you, I’m quiet, I don’t - don’t shoot me!’

‘Get out of here,’ says Farley, and he slams and bolts the door in the kid’s face, before turning and unloading his clip into his tin of apricots.

There is a terrible, momentary clash of metal on metal, again the thump of ignited powder, and Treavor twitches before he regains his composure, exhaling fast and hard.

‘Son of a _bitch_!’ says Farley.

‘What?’

‘Martin!’

‘Martin?’

‘He’s got himself caught. I’m going to kill him.’

‘Oh no,’ says Treavor, and it is the sound of his spirit merging and fading with the cosmos, ‘oh no. How? Do I want to know?’

‘No idea. They’ve got him in the stocks in Holger.’

‘Oh no.’

‘“ _Oh no_ ”,’ Farley repeats, and his voice is high and mocking, as though “oh no” isn’t an entirely warranted turn of phrase right now, and Treavor picks up and downs the last of his whiskey. The glass is sticky with apricot syrup.

‘We’ll have to - have to get him… now. As soon as we can, I mean -’

‘No shit, Pendleton. You trust Martin with this-’ he gestures around himself, sweeping and furious, ‘- under interrogation?’

‘He must have held out _somewhat_ -’

‘You trust him?’ Farley asks again, and Treavor twitches because of course, and of course not.

‘We made a _pact_. I’d trust _you_ -’

‘ _I_ didn’t fail on the first damn step! Yes, we’ll go get him but - fuck! _Fuck_! When’s Corvo coming back? We’ll have to -’

‘You said he’s willing. Before - fuck, Farley.’

‘Fuck indeed,’ says Farley, and rolls his shoulders, ‘I don’t have any clue about what’s going on around Holger. Martin was supposed to tell us - damn, _damn_! Right, no. We can - we can work this to our advantage. Geoff Curnow, for starters, and Martin, and we get - what was it he said? Campbell’s book?’

‘His black book.’

‘Right! The black book. And we figure out where to go next. We’ll talk to Corvo. It’ll be fine.’

The air is sweet and heady with apricots - it’ll be fine.

Treavor sits on the stairs and listens as Farley debriefs Corvo that evening, listens to him lie about Martin, and how integral and how clever he is, and as Corvo leaves, Treavor enters and says, ‘Master strategist?’

‘Don’t you start.’

‘ _Master strategist_.’

‘Would you rather I say - this idiot who almost got us all killed?’

Treavor reaches for a glass; it’s as comfortable a prop as any, firm in his trembling hand, and he’s already running low on decent cigarettes.

‘I do hope he’s okay.’

Farley hums and looks down, and Callista comes in from outside, face flushed - ‘Oh thank you, Admiral, my uncle -’

‘Is not safe yet, girl.’

‘Corvo -’ says Callista, and her blush, previously from the cold, spreads across her cheeks and ears in an embarrassed bloom ‘- my uncle always said he’s a good man.’ She stops, and cools her face against the back of her hands, stifling a nervous chuckle, ‘I’m - forgive me. Lydia said we’d be eating soon; to gather in the bar.’

Five of them share a meal of the inescapable jellied eels around the bar - The redheaded girl brings Piero his in the workshop and stays there, and there’s an undeniable tension in the taproom.

‘It won’t be long now,’ says Farley as he sucks the last of the eel jelly off of his fingers and the loudspeaker booms a second time -

_Attention. All citizens living on the North side of the river between John Clavering Boulevard and Dunwall Tower are advised to remain indoors until further notice._

‘That’s him out there, doing like we dreamed he would.’

‘Trying to make some good in the world,’ says Treavor.

‘Definitely,’ says Farley.

They smoke, they stub out the butts, rinse, repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> X GODDAM X GUYS, WE GOT THERE. biggest love to derry for not only reading this over for me, but leaving me almost an hour of lovely voice messages about it that were so kind that i nearly expired of smiling at work. you guys. i'm compromised.
> 
> seriously go show derry your love she's the absolute greatest and i cri evertim. please leave me a review or whatever if you get to the end of this, I can't express how much that means to me. writing takes me an embarrassingly long time, but it's made less embarrassing by the thought that people actually read what i put out, hahah


	21. xxi

Corvo arrives a little after midnight with his hand wrapped tight around a little black book.

‘Campbell’s dead,’ he says, ‘Curnow’s alive, your man Martin says he’ll return soon.’

‘Brilliant work,’ says Farley, and he pours a drink, which Corvo takes after he sits at the bar. He looks clean enough, but there’s a powerful stench, metal-sweet, which lingers long after he’s retired to bed. Treavor refuses to mention it, but the look he shares with Farley says more than enough.

The night is long and restless, but Treavor must have eventually fallen asleep, because he wakes up to the sound of Brooklaine yelling the building down.

‘I’m telling you, there’s something down there!’

Wallace is murmuring at her - ‘I don’t know what you expect _me_ to do -’

‘No,’ says Lydia, and there is the slap of her hands against her thighs, exasperated, ‘me neither. I’ll ask the Admiral to do something.’

‘As you should, I have to tend to his Lordship.’

‘Of course you do,’ says Lydia, taking off down the corridor, and Treavor pretends to be asleep when Wallace knocks upon the door and lets himself in.

‘My Lord? You asked me to wake you before sunrise.’

It’s such a stupid request that it’s almost certainly true, and Treavor curses his past self, gracelessly rolling his lower body off the side of the bed; his feet catch and slide over empty bottles.

‘Is Martin back yet?’

‘Not yet, but I expect soon. Parliament today?’

‘Yes, yes, in the afternoon - stop your fussing, you know I like to put on my stockings first, I - in fact, leave me to it, would you? I don’t like how that woman talks -’

‘That woman,’ says Wallace with unexpected ire, ‘doesn’t know a thing - a common harridan -’

‘- and we’re all equals here, Wallace. Common harridans, the lot of us.’ He jerks his head toward the door, ‘Off you pop.’

Treavor’s a grown man, and can dress himself. Mostly. None of his clothes seem to fit properly, and cuff buttons are far too complicated for him when he’s just woken up, so he leaves them off. He takes a quick swig of whiskey for courage before he gets his corset on - he’s all lopsided, so he’ll have to get Wallace to take a look at it before he leaves for Parliament, but decent enough for the Pits. The Admiral is outside, leaning over the sewer drain thoughtfully.

‘Definitely something down there. Corvo’ll put a stop to them, I’m sure.’

‘Weepers?’

‘I expect so. Eugh -’ Farley’s turned to face him, ‘- you look a wreck. Where are your cuffs?’

‘I’m… I left them off. Wanted to make sure I was ready when Martin came back.’

‘You look like you’ve been possessed. Oh! Good morning, Corvo. Decent night?’

Corvo grunts in response, his still-long hair covering his face.

‘Well, I expect that Martin will be joining us shortly. I hate to start your day with such a strange matter, but the servants heard something last night, moving through the storm drains. Probably a weeper, the poor bastard, but I'd still appreciate you investigating. Just to be sure it's not a nosy guardsman that's getting too close, you know?’

‘Yeah, leave it to me,’ says Corvo, pocketing the key Farley hands him. He’s dressed and armed already, clearly ready to move on. Treavor backs off as Corvo shuffles himself down the drain, Farley holding the shutter open for him. Martin rounds the corner, letting himself through the back gate.

‘Miss me, lads?’

‘Teague,’ Treavor hisses, shaking his head, and -

‘ _Martin_!’ The sewer grate snaps closed, and Farley sprints to Treavor’s side in record time, ‘If you think I’m going to get pretty with you -’

‘Thanks for the rescue.’

Farley’s voice is dangerously low, ‘Oh you’d better. I don’t want to say anything because Corvo’s here, but - Fuck. You.’

Gunshot rattles beneath them, and Treavor jumps. Martin laughs -

‘Good to see you two unchanged, then.’

‘It’s not _funny_ \- you compromised _everything_ , and for what? Probably being a gloating cunt, as always.’

‘Yes, yes,’ says Martin, pushing past the two of them through the back door of the pub, ‘I’m the worst.’

‘And now, I’ve got to keep the appearance of civility, because I told Corvo that you were a _Master Strategist_ -’

‘Aw,’ says Martin, pulling himself a pint, ‘you shouldn’t have.’

‘Outsider’s eyes but you’re obnoxious,’ says Farley, but he cracks a grin, ‘I am glad you’re in one piece. We got Campbell’s book. Totally encrypted, but I’m sure that’ll be no trouble for a _strategist_ like you.’

‘Brilliant.’ Martin takes a long drink, tipping his head back, ‘Ah. Manna. No luck so far?’

‘We only got it a few hours ago. Even I have to sleep sometimes. And Treavor’s heading to Parliament in a minute -’

‘Let Treavor speak for himself, he’s a Big Boy.’

The two of them share a look, and then a laugh, and Treavor puffs himself up peevishly and says, ‘Bit rude.’

‘I meant no malice,’ says Havelock, and he steals a sip from Martin’s glass, ‘you know, Teague, he got dressed _all by himself_ this morning!’

‘I can tell. Where are your cuffs?’

-

Parliament is in uproar; not just Campbell’s murder, but eleven City Watch Guards killed by malfunctioning Sokolov technology, and a slaughter of Overseers in the yard out back of Holger. Corvo had never mentioned - he doesn’t want to think about it.

‘Sokolov should be held accountable!’ says Lady Peacroft, ‘And he should work to ensure nothing happens again - to think! I allowed one of those watchtowers to go up not two hundred meters from my house!’

Burrows looks unnaturally ruffled today, and his voice doesn’t carry as well as it usually does - ‘Of course, Lady Peacroft, it was something of a freak accident -’

‘A watchtower _and_ two walls of light, Lord Regent? Within half an hour of each other? Don’t insult my intelligence so.’

‘I’ve spoken to the Royal Physician - we believe it to be some kind of… event. Magnetic. A solar storm, perhaps.’

‘And not an hour before the High Overseer was murdered? You expect me to believe some kind of natural disaster over a villain with some kind of… circuitry bypass?’

‘Aye!’ From the backbenches, ‘We all know he leaves the workings unprotected!’

‘Hang him!’ Lady Gertrude interjects.

‘- Whom?’

‘Settle down!’ says Burrows, rubbing at his face, which looks terribly grey. ‘I would suggest we be… very careful. There were witnesses, last night. Our murderer wears a long coat, a hood, and a mask. Posters are going up as we speak - we have no idea what this man’s intentions were, we have no idea if he might strike again -’

He sighs, and steps back from the bench for a moment, rolling his shoulders.

‘- The Feast of the Painted Kettles has been called. I pray that none of us fall to the Outsider’s influence without the guidance of our High Overseer.’

-

It takes a week to crack the main cypher of Campbell’s journal; the man was smarter than any of them had been prepared for - not just simple substitution but more than that; cypher upon cypher, different each page; it had driven them to distraction.

‘Someone else probably made it for him,’ says Martin, reaching over Farley’s head for Treavor’s lighter, which has been left in the centre of the desk, ‘the book, I mean, the prompts. You can tell it’s him from the _handwriting_.’ He winds around the side of the desk then, and gives his cigarette a flick. The ashtray is overflowing.

Farley’s handwriting is just as bad, as he pulls himself over his notepaper, checking off each letter as he goes. He thinks aloud, ‘A... count back seven is T, H, that’s the same, Q... count back twelve’s E; _THE_ , okay - We should make one of those… Old Serk decrypters.’

‘ _You_ make one,’ says Treavor.

‘ _S_ ,’ says Farley, overloud, ‘back twelve again’s G, four, I, seventeen… R, back to seven… L - _Shit_! The girl!’

‘The girl?’ says Teague, stomping over from the far corner near Farley’s bed, ‘You’re certain?’

‘No,’ says Farley, buttery-smooth, ‘I thought I’d _lie_ \- Of course I’m fucking certain; come over here and help, at least.’

Teague makes a frustrated noise, but grabs a piece of paper all the same, scribbling onto it, tearing it in half, and presenting it to Farley, ‘There’s your Old Serk decrypter.’

Farley puts his hand down on the table, ‘And you didn’t tell us this before _because_?’

‘It was quite funny to watch you struggle.’

‘Eugh! Right, I’ll read them to you, then, and you decode. Keyword’s _hammer,_ so G’s the same, then _AX_.’

‘O… L’

‘HV.’

‘D, E.’

‘UC’

‘Starting the keyword again… N, C.’

‘Golden Cat,’ says Treavor, dawning horror, ‘it’s the Golden Cat -’

‘MF, Teague?’

‘... AT. Golden Fucking Cat. They’re keeping a child in a _brothel_.’

‘The Cat’s more of a bath-house.’

‘Semantics, Treavor. Farley?’

Farley’s brow is furrowed as he scrawls upon his notes, then flips back through a few pages to show them - ‘It’s… look. That little symbol again, he only ever uses it between C and M, when we decode it.’

‘Looks like an ampersand.’

‘A _what_?’

‘Means “and”, so, “C and M”, like you said.’

Treavor lights another cigarette, and Farley stares at him.

‘Do you want it?’

‘C and M,’ says Farley, and he’s not staring at Treavor, actually, his gaze following the lighter back to the desktop, and Treavor feels like he’s been punched.

‘Custis and Morgan.’

-

They can’t keep it from Corvo for long, not when Treavor’s so obviously agitated. The next few pages of the book decode to a rant about the stupidity of Burrows’ Lady Boyle getting her portrait painted, which gives them their next move, and if they’re lucky they can get that all done in one day; cut off three heads of the hydra, arms of the octopus.

Honestly, Treavor’s not sure that he wants them to be lucky.

It’s not that they’re his brothers - no, it’s precisely because they’re his brothers, and despite all the times he’s wanted his brothers dead, there’s a special word for it. It’s murder for the rest of them, and fratricide for him.

As a child, Treavor had often wished his poor, dead brothers and sisters had made it; that they might protect him, that they might teach Morgan and Custis about brotherhood, and that it’s not purely about being the same. Killing Morgan and Custis makes Treavor an only child.

He can’t bear it. In the morning, after a late, late night, Farley and Teague debrief Corvo on his trip to the Golden Cat, and Treavor stands outside the door and drinks. He seems to drink a lot these days, but it’s not - perhaps it’s become a crutch, but his life is so _visceral_ , overbright and needling constantly without it - he’s not becoming his father, he’s not, he swears it - and when Corvo leaves the bar Treavor collars him and just starts babbling -

‘You know I’m sending you to kill my brothers, they’re - horrible men, cruel beyond words but -’ he has to wash his mouth out for speaking ill of the soon-to-be-dead, ‘- they are my brothers. My _family_ \- you understand, when your own Lady Emily - no, that’s not right -’

He takes another drink, almost frantic, definitely ugly, and Corvo nods sagely and says, ‘For the cause.’

‘Yes! And if we have to - to _remove_ my family to reinstate the Lady Emily, then it’s an obvious choice, one I’d make in a heartbeat, I - I’m just taken by surprise, I suppose. I didn’t expect this.’ His voice goes small and pensive without his consent, ‘I didn’t expect any of it.’

‘I understand,’ says Corvo, and he flips open his blade with one hand, far too close, and takes off to Samuel’s boat. Treavor’s hand is shaking. He lights a cigarette, and waits for the boat to return.

-

Pendleton Hall is cavernous - he hasn’t been home in weeks, and now it’s clear that the twins haven’t either each dust mote in the low winter sunlight tells a story not just of neglect, but of treachery. His beautiful family home, ransacked for the Regent, and Treavor must sit like a king upon a crumbling throne until the Watch come to tell him that his brothers are dead. That’s the plan.

He’s never been alone here before, and when the doorbell is rung he has to open the door himself - he’s never done that either, and the elite watchman behind it looks terribly worried.

‘My Lord Pendleton, I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

Treavor schools his face into concern, and takes a sip from the glass in his hand.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You may want to sit down, My Lord. There has been a terrible accident.’

‘In the mines?’ asks Treavor, safe in the knowledge that this is not what the watchman has come about.

‘No. I - My name is Callum Ren. I’ve been sent to tell you that your brothers -’

‘My brothers?!’

‘Yes, I - I’m sorry, My Lord, it appears that they’ve been killed.’

‘Killed? As in - murdered?’

‘I’m - I’m terribly sorry, sir, but we believe so.’

Treavor does take a step back then, unbidden, piloted. He’s committed fratricide, and this Ren doesn’t even know.

‘Outsider’s - Outsider’s eyes. You’re sure it’s them? You’re sure?’

That’s scripted, and a concerted effort to visit the Cat himself. He and Teague and Farley have planned this.

‘Yes - we - the investigation has just started, but -’

‘- you’ll have to take me.’

That’s less scripted, more wrong-side-of-tipsy earnestness. His teeth hurt from clenching them.

Ren is stunned silent. He wears the insignia of a captain.

‘We’ll take my carriage.’

-

 

The guard outside salutes Captain Ren - ‘No new developments, Sir. The girls won’t talk unless that Joanna is there.’

‘That Joanna?’

‘Of the Scarlet Room, Sir. Something of a leader.’

There is a small mercy in the fact that Joanna of the Scarlet Room has never seen Treavor naked; she offers a rather specific service, and if Treavor had ever wanted someone to step on his face and call him worthless he could save his money and just head home. He and Ren take up the stairs, to the Gold Room.

Treavor doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s not this; a man-sized bloodstain on the carpet, scattered with a few still-bloody bones, mostly shards and marrow.

‘Fuck,’ says Treavor, and he can’t even prop himself up upon the bed because there’s a woman on it - well, half a woman, chewed and bloody to the mid-thighs, ‘rats.’

‘We think so, my Lord,’ says Captain Ren, and he holds the door open, ‘you really don’t need to stay -’

\- but he _does_ need to stay, to get an alibi, to delay extra guards from reaching Kaldwin’s Bridge - he swallows his nausea; he asked for this.

‘My Lord?’ asks one of the guards, and he has a skull - _Custis’ skull_ \- between his hands, ‘If there’s anything identifying you could tell us about -’

‘Teeth,’ Treavor gasps, ‘Custis has silver teeth - two of them, on the top.’

The guard examines the skull, ‘Premolars, my Lord?’

‘... yes, probably. They’re solid silver - it’s him, I know -’

Captain Ren has a guiding hand on Treavor’s weak left shoulder, removing him from the room. The main atrium of the Golden Cat is cavernously empty, save for dropped weapons and bloodstains. Broken sobbing echoes through the building.

There is an odour coming from the steam rooms downstairs, so dilute at first he barely notices it, but three steps down it is suddenly suffocating; salty-sweet like boiled Morley ham. His stomach turns, and Captain Ren’s eyes flash some dreadful imperative; you don’t need to see this. The younger guard hasn’t yet clocked it.

‘Girls!’ he says, ‘What’s cooking down here?’

Each step’s descent makes the smell stronger, and the muffled crying from before louder - there are two courtesans sat on the bench farthest from the steps, embracing one another. Captain Ren says, ‘ _Pete_.’

‘Sorry, Sir, just - tryna take everyone’s mind off -’ he pauses, rooted to the spot, ‘- oh fuck, that’s -’

‘Yes, Pete,’ says Captain Ren, and Pete takes off back up the stairs, gagging. Captain Ren approaches the two courtesans and speaks in a low, soothing voice to the pair of them; the red-faced sobbing girl and her protector, the proud-looking Joanna, who meets his eyes and mutters to Captain Ren -

‘Hasn’t she talked about it enough?’

‘Just once more, Loulia, please.’

Joanna scowls, a harsh expression on her pretty face, but then it’s gone, and poor Loulia sucks a shuddering sob and says, ‘I still don’t - it’s hazy, I - I remember I was giving him a massage, his hands, and I was looking into the water and a hagfish had swum in and then - I don’t know, it’s gone, I was outside and I was sick, I must have - I don’t know -’

She hiccups another sob, looking at her balled hands, ‘Then I saw Stephen, and James, and I didn’t know what to do and then Morgan - Lord Pendleton - was screaming and the steam -’

She’s lost to her crying again, and Joanna wraps an arm about her shoulders, ‘Are you done, Gentlemen?’

‘Yes,’ says Captain Ren, ‘thank you, Loulia. Lord Pendleton -’ he’s turning a key around in his hand, obviously stalling, ‘- you really don’t have - it’s not nice in there. You could wait for the autopsy -’

‘No!’ Treavor says - snaps really, ‘I’ll - I’ll do them this courtesy at least. Open it up, man.’

Ren opens it up, grudgingly, and they step inside together.

His brother - definitely his brother, face-down on the marble floor, his blistered hands peeling away from themselves, vivid red. There is a hagfish floating belly-up in the water pool, just as Loulia had mentioned, and it smells, it _smells_ \- like an abandoned kitchen, like a game cupboard, like a slaughterhouse on a hot day. He backs out, escaping, but it’s done its worst already and he spins and pukes miserably; throatfuls of pungent whiskey-flavoured bile into the central fountain.

‘By all means,’ says Joanna, ‘we’ll be cleaning anyway.’

-

Treavor dreams about walking along the shore in Serkonos - he’s had this dream before, and before that he lived it, his seaside cure on the white-sand beaches just south of Saggunto.

He’s a child, nine years old and small for his age, sodden with seawater and sporting a bleeding gash on his face, and Morgan is just thirteen, in the short-lived pear-shaped phase before his big growth spurt. Custis is taller, coltishly slim with big feet, though he slouches to match his twin, and the three of them are returning from the rock-pools - Treavor has a little bucket with a spotted fish and two starfish splashing around in it, and he can’t wait to show Father.

Angelica and Father have hired out beach huts, but they must have gone back to the hotel to collect gin & tonics because they aren’t where they said they’d be. Custis goes into one of the huts and pulls out a deck-chair while Treavor pokes a piece of driftwood into his bucket to check that his collection is still alive - it is.

It works just as it did in real life - Custis yanking open his chair and sitting down heavily just as Treavor notices the strange, paper fruit that seems to be growing from the chair’s wooden frame. It’s the nest of a Pandyssian Solitary Jack-wasp.

The wasp is _huge,_ as long as Custis’ little finger and just as broad, and it makes a very angry noise.

Morgan yells for help, and it’s the only time Treavor ever heard him call Angelica “Mother” - but this is not his memory, and Father and Angelica are no-where to be seen, and after the wasp stings Custis hard on the wrist it doesn’t fly away, but stays, and stings him again.

Custis stands, screaming, and he kicks over Treavor’s bucket of sea creatures as a whole swarm of wasps come down on him, crawling out of the little nest on the deck-chair, one by one, over and over like rabbits from a magician’s hat. The wasps hold onto Custis with their hairy little legs and inject their stings into him again and again, and each wasp sting becomes a _bubo_ that _bursts_ in a shower of red and Custis roars again as the wasps sting his face and his hands and his skin explodes off of him until he’s a gleaming white skeleton.

Treavor finds his voice, and calls, like Morgan did - ‘Father! Mother!’ - and he realises that they have been inside one of these beach huts this whole time as the double doors open outwards except - except that they are not double doors but the lids of their coffins, and Father and Angelica’s dead bodies topple out of the hut and onto the warm sand, and Treavor sobs, ‘Mother! Father! Please help me!’

There is no-one there to help him, except Morgan, who stands behind him in the surf, totally unaffected.

‘Morgan!’ Treavor says, and Morgan’s doughy boy’s body stretches into his man’s form and a great, boiling wave comes out of the sea and engulfs him.

It’s all too much - Treavor sits down on the sand to cry, a grown man in his childhood bathing suit, as Morgan rises out of the steaming tide, his skin blistering red.

‘Why don’t you _help_ me?’ he asks, throwing up his hands, and the flesh of his arm sloughs off with the force of his movement, as though he’d melted.

‘You did this,’ Morgan says, ‘why didn’t you _help_ us?’ before he sinks back into the sea, clutching his skeleton arm to his body, and Treavor tries to call back - it all happened so fast, it was out of his hands, he - he - he doesn’t know.

Treavor dreams that he sits on warm Serkonan sands stained with his brother’s blood, and his Mother sits down beside him, bringing with her the smell of bitter almonds, and she holds him until everything fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the eleventh of feb marked four damn years since i posted the first chapter of this. What a wild ride.
> 
> The lovely Joanna is [akfedeau](http://archiveofourown.org/users/akfedeau/pseuds/akfedeau)'s, from [The Garden Of Earthly Delights](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7389259/chapters/16784866). Read this fic my friends u will not be disappointed.


	22. xxii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -awkwardly slides chapter across the table, months late-

Fucking hell, but it’s a mess. Treavor’s on the front bench, sweaty with fear, his ill-fitting Void Suit sagging about his shoulders - and it had fit, it _had_ , just months ago; he blames that on having to dress himself again - and Parliament are talking about his brothers.

He’s sat through an hour of this already, with another two to go before he can slip out to the waterfront and back to the Pits, all these false platitudes and patronisingly sad looks, as if they had liked Custis and Morgan, as if _he_ had liked Custis and Morgan -

‘You poor thing,’ says Lady Gertrude, ‘the villain will hang for this.’ - and he’s a grown man, dammit, a _grown man_ , not an orphaned child, and instead he nods his head and closes his eyes and tries to look brave, as is expected of him. Perfect.

Even Burrows, that unsentimental bastard, has a few pretty words to say about losing prominent young members of the blah blah - did so much hard work on the blah, such _respected_ blah, and once it’s all over he grabs Treavor by the arm and steers him into an office -

‘Lord Pendleton. I don’t wish to embarrass you, but - ah, there’s no easy way to broach this subject -’

‘Lord Regent?’

‘- I do know about your current, ah, _financial_ difficulties - your brothers were great supporters of mine, and I, in turn, supported them.’

‘I -’

‘Please don’t see this as something _sinister_ -’

‘I shan’t _sell_ my vote!’ that’s a little more forceful, a little more shrill than he’d hoped it would come out, but Burrows takes it in his stride.

‘Of course not! Of course not. You’re a man of principle, I know -’

Does he know? He can’t know, not at all.

‘Then I’ll keep it in mind,’ says Treavor, and that’s more the diplomatic tone he was trying for.

If Burrows were a less serious man, he would have winked. As it stands, he claps Treavor’s arm and says, ‘Capital,’ crosses to the door and holds it open.

‘You have my sympathies,’ he says, as though it were a continuation of their previous conversation, and Treavor leaves Parliament like a man without an agenda, blending down toward the watermen’s steps behind the butcher’s. The Amaranth is tucked into the space between the buildings, close enough to the stone embankment that it scrapes.

‘Milord,’ says Samuel, and he has the forethought to look somber. Samuel seems a good sort, in general.

‘Is it - is it all -’

‘Yes, according to plan. Were you followed?’

Treavor looks behind himself, paranoid, but of course he’s alone.

‘No, no, of course not.’

He has to take Samuel’s hand to get into the boat, and he shuffles and stumbles despite it.

‘And the Empress?’ he asks once Samuel has re-started his engine -

‘Safe and sound. Sokolov too. Went off without a hitch. Mostly.’

‘Mostly?’

‘Well, I suppose you’ve heard it already, sir. About the people killed.’

‘Oh,’ says Treavor, ‘yeah.’

The silence that falls between them is uncomfortable, and they both try to fill it at once -

‘- it’s not my place to -’

‘- Corvo knows what -’

They stop again, and Samuel tilts his head, ‘No, you carry on, milord.’

‘I - No, it’s foolish. Do you want a drink?’ he shakes his flask out of his coat in Samuel’s direction -

‘Not while I’m piloting.’

‘Suit yourself,’ says Treavor, and takes a swallow, ‘Corvo’s the professional, isn’t he - if there were a better way of doing it, he would do it, wouldn’t he?’

Samuel steers them carefully between the boat husks disguising the pub’s loading bay -

‘Wouldn’t he?’ Treavor repeats, a little louder.

‘Aye,’ says Samuel, ‘I suppose he would. He’s been wanting to speak with you, anyway - probably best if he sees you before the Empress does.’

It takes Treavor a moment to make the connection; that his brothers - _his_ brothers had kept her locked up for so long and though they don’t - _didn’t_! - look all that similar, perhaps it would be best to warn her first. The pub is curiously quiet; Martin must have returned to the Abbey, and the two women servants are crowded around the stove in the bar, baking bread. Treavor takes to the stairs.

_ From my earliest memory they abused me in every way.  _

That’s his own voice, filtered through the wall again - someone’s listening to his audiograph, some sneak, and can’t a man have even a little privacy?

_ I'm not the first to claim their elder siblings were cruel, but my suffering was unique, I promise you. _

Treavor stops at the top of the steps to adjust himself before stepping into the doorway of his room. 

_ At the tender age of five, they tied me to the crib- _

Corvo shuts off the audiograph as they meet eyes; entirely unapologetic.

‘Corvo.’

‘Lord Treavor -’

‘- I - is Lady Emily well?’

Corvo stiffens, first at the interruption and then at the mention of Emily - ‘She will be. What those brutes -’

‘- I am sorry -’

‘- Lord Treavor.’

Corvo shakes his head. He’s a quiet man, but commanding, and Treavor always feels a little self-conscious around him in a way completely unrelated to his danger and skill. He rubs at his shoulder, and Corvo carries on, face twisting -

‘Your brothers; I apologise for the… untidiness you saw. I was too angry, I let it overwhelm me -’ he clenches his hands, knuckles the colour of ash, and is unable to finish his sentence. It’s the most Treavor has ever heard him speak.

‘Of course,’ says Treavor, and he twists his own hands before grabbing at his flask - it’s empty, ‘you’ll have to forgive me if I can’t thank you for what you did -’ he reaches clumsily over the audiograph for the brandy bottle behind it, and his flask topples and clicks it on -

_ and set inside it assorted vipers they had collected over several weeks - _

‘I’d have thought you’d be glad,’ says Corvo, and Treavor looks at his chosen method of fratricide and says,

‘So did I.’

-

Waverly is making very deliberate eye contact with him, smoking on the backbenches as he enters Parliament’s great hall. He looks away, and looks back, and she is still pinning him with her gaze, drawing the smoke up from her mouth to her nose in an elegant Serk inhale, then expelling it in a series of faint rings that float lazily toward the ceiling. She’s trying to attract his attention, and it’s working.

‘You still haven’t got the hang of that, have you?’

‘Treavor,’ says Waverly, an admonishing tone in her voice, and Treavor says, ‘Waverly.’

‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it,’ she says, and the next smoke ring she blows is dense and fast, ‘I did get the hang of it, you see? Sit down, won’t you?’

Treavor sits down, watching her go through her little catalogue of smoking tricks; they’d taught each other, nearly ten years past now, and sometimes Treavor cannot even imagine the kind of man he must have been to be the best friend of Waverly Boyle.

‘You know I’ve missed you,’ she says, passing him her box of cigarettes, ‘awful rude to just stop talking to me -’

‘Stop talking to _you_? You told me to -’

‘I am capricious,’ she says, ‘I thought you had more faith.’

‘I was traumatised.’

‘Traumatised? _Oh_ \- “Outsider’s tits”, I recall.’ She watches him light a cigarette through her lashes, then continues, ‘I’ll forgive you, then.’

‘Forgive _me_?’

‘Yes, and you’re welcome.’ She casts a look over Parliament’s hall, and the chattering old men, and says, ‘This is dull, isn’t it. Do you want to get lunch?’

Treavor opens his mouth to say no, that he rather needs to be here, but she puts a finger up - ‘My treat, okay? There are no votes this afternoon, if that’s what you’re worrying about. Come on.’

She’s never quite grown out of her childish habit of taking people by the hand - her cold fingers in his feel like sticks of chalk.

‘Perhaps I’d like to filibuster something this afternoon,’ he says, ‘did you think of that?’

‘“Something”,’ says Waverly, her voice heavy with sarcasm, ‘don’t make excuses. I’m sure Brisby will do it for you, anyhow, the little copycat.’

Treavor sniffs, and shakes his hand out of her grasp as they leave the hall, ‘No shame in him following my good ideas -’

‘They’re derivative,’ says Waverly, catching her shoulder on the Prime Minister’s as they cross paths in the doorway, ‘and who knew you cared so much about the plague.’

‘I’ve always cared, ever since Mr Joseph, you all know that -’

Waverly runs down the front steps to stand ahead of him, hooking her arm around his and brushing at his sleeve -

‘No need to get defensive -’ she guides him in the pantomime of checking for carriages before crossing the deserted street to the Parliament House Restaurant, ‘- and this is a very old suit, Treavor.’

‘Guh! It’s timeless!’

‘If you _like_ ,’ she says, fairly, ‘though it does give credence to… well, that thing about your brothers’ money.’

‘What _thing_? Who told you anything about that?’

‘Oh, a little bird,’ says Waverly, flashing a pair of fingers at the head waiter as she pulls Treavor toward a cosy corner table, but waits for him to pull out her chair, ‘don’t give me that _look_ , it’s just a _rumour_ -’

Treavor makes a face and means to retort, but is interrupted by wine and a hot whale steak salad - ‘How on _earth_?’

‘I’m a very, _very_ rich lady these days, Treavor. Very important.’

She’s baiting him, and he refuses to take it for all of ten seconds - ‘The rat lights.’

She smiles, smugly, ‘It’s brilliant, isn’t it? Anyway, I’m glad to be helping -’

‘- making a profit -’

‘Well, _obviously_.’ Her thin smile blooms into a full grin, and she gives a snort of laughter that Treavor shares after a moment, looking away and stirring at his salad with his fork.

‘You mustn't let it eat you up,’ says Waverly, ‘the guilt, I mean,’ and Treavor freezes solid.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know,’ she says, and waves her hand a little, ‘they're dead -’

‘- and I don't feel guilty about that!’

‘Well, you shouldn't. You didn't kill them yourself, did you? Didn't bankroll this murderer -’

‘Of course not!’ he’s a little too earnest on that, perhaps, but Waverly just closes her eyes.

‘I mean that they're dead, and you should be mourning, but you don't love them-’

‘I _do_ love them!’

‘I - I’m not doubting that, you loved them more than they deserved but not- not enough for _grief_ , and so you feel guilty. I was the same when my Jeremiah died.’

‘You're projecting.’

‘Perhaps a little,’ she concedes, pushing her food around the plate, ‘but there's no shame in it, you know. We’ve more in common than we’d like to admit to, I think.’

They pause, and Treavor watches her painstakingly peel a flake of meat off of her steak, only to slide it off of her fork.

‘At any rate, you're doing a very poor job of pretending nothing’s wrong when you turn up to Parliament looking like you haven't eaten or slept or _bathed_ in a week,’ and it's clear which of those she finds most unforgivable.

Perhaps she's right; Treavor can't properly recall the last time he consumed anything that didn't come out of a bottle with a percentage on, but she must have noticed how it _smells_ in here, how cloying and nauseating the rich scent of meat is. The sleeping is almost as hard in that creaking, draughty house, and the less said about the bathing the better; the Admiral seems to think it's acceptable to enter the room to piss while another man’s in the tub.

‘Oh,’ he says, because he refuses to be criticised, ‘and when was the last time you did any of those things?’

Waverly gives him a long look, ‘Yesterday, last night, and the night before last. So multiply how bad I look by, say, six, then take off my buffer of natural beauty, and you might have some understanding of how rough you look right now.’

‘Ah,’ says Treavor, and attempts to fluff his hair at the front as she had those times they’d spent the night together -

‘It’s not helping,’ she says, reaching a hand across the table to flatten it back down and chuckling to herself. When she draws her hand back, she seems to have sobered considerably.

‘Treavor,’ says Waverly, and she sounds deadly serious now, ‘you would tell me if you were doing something extraordinarily stupid, wouldn’t you?’

And Treavor says, ‘Of course.’

-

‘I am doing something extraordinarily stupid.’

‘Elaborate,’ says Timothy.

They’re in the back room of Timothy’s club, which is as always - a little too warm, a little too dark, and slightly, quietly, horribly, a little erotic. Treavor lights a cigarette and turns it around in his hand, purposefully avoiding Timothy’s eyes as he says, ‘Burrows has a mistress - Lady Boyle -’

And Timothy does something very bizarre; he leaps to his feet with frenzied eyes, pushing one hand to Treavor’s chest -

‘Who told you that?!’

‘You know?’ says Treavor, and Timothy pushes him again, two-handed like a child on the playground -

‘Who told you?’ he asks, and he looks a little wild, his rosy face draining white.

‘Sokolov!’ says Treavor, catching himself on the card table and levering himself into a seat - the end has fallen off of his cigarette in the commotion; he stamps it into the carpet and re-lights the dog-end he has left, repulsed. ‘Sokolov told me. Well, my friends. Who told you? And why didn’t you tell _me_? Damn it, Timothy!’ 

Timothy looks a little sick. ‘So you _were_ responsible for -’

‘Shut up! I’m not _responsible_. It’s not - I think he… our man’s gotten some mixed messages. Or - I don’t know, perhaps he prefers a heavier touch. It’s best to leave these things to the professionals, isn’t it?’

‘It is Attano. He, I mean, your man?’

‘Shh! I’m interrogating _you_ \- who told you about Boyle?’

Just the mention of her brings that green pallor back to Timothy’s face - ‘I didn’t - I walked in on them. Just, kissing - I panicked and they saw me and she was so angry -’

‘You know _which_?’

‘No! I - Treavor, I can’t tell you -’

‘Is it Esma?’

‘- No! -’

‘Lydia?’

‘- No! -’

‘Waverly?’

‘- No, Treavor! If she finds out - if either of them find out I’ve told, I’m dead.’

‘This is for the future of the Empire!’

‘Versus the future of _me_? Allow me this one secret, Treavor. Or tell me about your group. Tell me where you meet.’

Treavor’s blood runs cold.

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Then you see,’ says Timothy, and he cracks a coy, smug grin for a moment, ‘I am sorry, but we both know; I’d sell you in a moment if they got me.’ He gives a self-deprecating chuckle, rubs a hand across his jaw, then spreads both in an open gesture, ‘Your name would be out of my lips before the iron even touched me, old boy.’

‘We’ve got to get rid of her,’ says Treavor, miserably, and he takes an inelegant gulp from his flask, ‘she’s funding it all. She probably paid for - the Empress.’

They’re both quiet for a long time.

‘You don’t want to, do you?’

‘Of course not. I - Waverly would never forgive me.’

‘No,’ Timothy agrees, ‘she wouldn’t. Perhaps I could talk to her? Tell her to leave the country? He’ll be doing it on the fifteenth, I assume, under the cover of the party?’

‘... That’s the plan.’

‘I have a boat,’ Timothy continues, ‘I could go in alone, and leave with her before Attano even arrives! Protect us both!’

‘No,’ says Treavor, ‘He’s - driven. Powerful. He’d hunt you down.’

‘Then we bring him aboard! Tell a story; we’re lovers, she’s bearing my child, she can’t be seen going anywhere with me but…’ he winds his hands as he weaves his tale, ‘we know he has a weakness for the romantic. He wouldn’t…’

‘ _Had_ a weakness for the romantic. He boiled my brother alive.’

‘It’s not the same,’ says Timothy, ‘I’m sure it would work!’

‘It _won’t_! Timothy - I... please don’t do anything. _Please_. I made a mistake telling you and we shouldn’t - we shouldn’t speak of this again.’

Timothy looks mutinous, but nods. ‘Neither of us are happy about th-’

‘Shut up!’ Treavor lets himself out of the back room and into the main clubhouse, where Montgomery Shaw is smoking a thick cigar at the bar.

‘Lover’s spat?’ he asks as Treavor goes behind the bar to collect a bottle of wine, and he smiles with too many teeth. His hair's going grey at the temples, and he looks haggard and old; he’s only a year older than Treavor - they all look old, his whole generation.

‘Shut up,’ Treavor repeats, gesturing with the corkscrew before winding it viciously into the bottletop, and Shaw chokes on his smoke as he laughs.

‘Sad, really, that Brisby is all you can get.’

Treavor glares - he hasn’t the energy for this - ‘Sad that all you can get is your rat-faced wife.’ He punctuates his insult with the pop of the cork from his bottle, and barely gets its mouth to the lip of his glass before Shaw has a _knife_ , of all things, pointed at him.

‘You take that back.’

Having been on the wrong end of more than a couple of guns in the past six months, Shaw’s knife holds little fear for him. He finishes pouring his glass, sipping the overflow from its rim, and takes the bottle back to the back room.

‘No.’

Shaw kicks his stool away from the bar as he stands up - ‘A duel, Pendleton! I challenge you to a duel for besmirching my wife’s name!’

‘Alright,’ says Treavor, and closes the door behind him.

-

Of course he regrets it afterward, when it almost comes to fisticuffs outside Parliament, but it’s like Montgomery doesn’t even want him to take it back after all. In the end, Treavor packs Corvo off to Lady Boyle’s party with a hastily-written apology, and sets himself the task of worrying about something else. His memoirs, or -

Martin slams the door open, and he looks harried. He doesn’t say anything, but stands there for so long that Treavor feels like he has to invite him in.

‘Do you trust him?’ says Martin, and he refuses the glass offered to him in favour of pawing through Treavor’s belongings.

‘Who?’

‘Corvo. Do you trust Corvo?’

‘With what?’

Martin laughs, a bitter, choked sound, turning his attention to the small collection of items that Corvo had brought back from his travels, that Treavor might be able to pawn off somewhere more savoury than Piero’s black market.

‘That’s precisely what I mean. With anything? Everything? Because that’s what we’re doing here.’

‘Your point being…? Don’t get fingerprints on that, Outsider’s eyes -’

Martin slams the watch back down on the desk. ‘My point being… oh, how to put this for your delicate ears… Havelock and I think that once Corvo’s done - with Boyle, and Burrows - that he should be, perhaps, done in.’

‘“Havelock and I” - scheming without me, now? I’m an equal partner -’

‘Of course!’ says Martin, ‘Which is why I’m sharing this with you -’

‘- my money,’ says Treavor, and he rubs his hands together - it’s cold in here, and not being able to run the lights or the stoves for long takes its toll, ‘How could we even do that? He’s - unstoppable. Who’d take him? You? _Me_? Even Havelock wouldn’t stand a chance.’

‘Here I was thinking you nobles were a slippery lot; we don’t _take_ him, we _poison_ him.’

‘Do you know how much a poison _costs_?’

‘A lot, yes, but why else do we keep you around -’

‘Fuck you, Martin, I - I do a lot of work for -’

Martin holds his hands open in surrender, ‘I jest, I jest. But we do need to think about it - Corvo’s killed… tens of innocents, and once we’re done, once we try to fix this, that blood will be on our hands for the world to see.’

Treavor watches Martin claw a rolled canvas out from under the desk, and he unfurls it just enough to catch Treavor’s own face staring out of it, pallid and waxy, before he recoils and rolls it back up -

‘That’s a Sokolov, though, isn’t it? That’d pay for our poison -’

‘I haven’t even agreed to it yet!’

‘Okay!’ says Martin, holding out his hands again - like Treavor’s father used to do, but less practiced, less refined, and the feeling of an insult still lingers - ‘Just - as I said, people will think it’s on us.’

‘Is it not?’

Martin hands the portrait back to Treavor, and clasps a red-hot hand over his - ‘Not yet,’ he says, ‘by the Everyman’s grace - not yet.’

\--

Corvo comes back from the Boyle party, and he is furious. Treavor watches him charge from the boat, and then he holds out his hand, clenched to a tight fist, there is a wicked suction of blue light and then - and then Corvo is beside him, his blade drawn.

‘This,’ he says, brandishing a piece of parchment, ‘was the stupidest -’

It’s Treavor’s note to Shaw, opened and muddy -

‘You didn’t give it him?’

Corvo shakes, taken aback, and blinks slowly before speaking, ‘Oh, I gave it, and you’re lucky I picked it back up because -’

‘- and what did he -’

‘He’s dead,’ says Corvo, and it’s Treavor’s turn to shudder, ‘two guards, too, because they knew I was working for you!’

‘I - shit - Corvo, you’ve read it, I didn’t want -’

‘You have a funny way of getting me to do what you _don’t want_ , Lord Pendleton!’ says Corvo, and he puts so much force into it, despite his voice being no louder than a whisper. Treavor recoils, stricken.

‘Two guards,’ he says.

‘Three,’ says Corvo, flicking his blade closed, ‘Shaw had two bodyguards - and another saw me from the balcony; he was very close to sounding the alarm.’ He rubs at his tired eyes, giving Treavor enough time to think, fuck, Shaw and three guards, that’s on him. He takes a swig, and doesn’t miss Corvo’s expression of distaste.

‘Another,’ Corvo says, and the tremulous rage is back in his voice, ‘the man you had me meet - that _rapist_.’

Treavor draws a blank, and it shows on his face, gormless and lost.

‘Horrible little man, in a rat mask -’

‘Brisby?’

‘Brisby!’ says Corvo, ‘That disgusting - “Oh, my friend, deposit me this unconscious woman” -’

Treavor’s frozen. _Romantic_ , Timothy had said, and he hadn’t thought, he’d never thought -

‘- There are things I won’t be party to, Lord Pendleton! I slit his throat.’

‘Good,’ says Treavor, ‘good job,’ and his voice must betray him, Timothy and Shaw and three guards and two brothers to his name, ‘and Lady Boyle?’

‘Waverly,’ says Corvo, and he pulls out the vowels languorous and cool as the lady he refers to, ‘I ran her through.’

\--

Treavor dreams that he’s playing cards with Timothy Brisby. They've played a few hands of Nancy, and had a few too many drinks, and Timothy’s now shuffling the cards a little cack-handedly between his cigarette and wineglass.

‘I'm bringing out _the girls_ ,’ he says, lecherously, ‘they’re having a _party_.’

This is a classic game of theirs - Treavor laughs deep in his throat, light-headed with smoke and booze fumes, ‘Who’s invited?’

‘Well,’ says Timothy, and he gives the cards one last shuffle, before he lays out five cards, face down on the game table in a rough pentagon. He and Treavor take turns revealing the girls; Katy, who’s chubby and shy, hiding behind her golden hair; Harriet, who's chubby and bold, pulling the front of her blouse to uncover one lovely breast.

Treavor turns the next; Electra, who wears her underwear and a pair of pince-nez.

Timothy; Lilly, nude and blonde.

Treavor has the honor of the last; he turns it to reveal Montgomery Shaw, in his wolf mask.

‘Oh,’ says Treavor, but he’s drunk, so he laughs, ‘I can’t believe they made a Shaw card.’

Timothy hums, clearly disturbed, but he continues the game, laying out a triangle of cards inside the first five.

‘The hosts,’ he says, and turns the top card over.

‘Lady Boyle,’ he says, just as Treavor gasps, ‘ _Waverly_.’

‘Yes,’ says Timothy, ‘Waverly Boyle. Who’s next?’

Treavor turns over the second card -

‘Lady Boyle, again! That must be Lydia.’

Timothy takes the third, ‘My, my,’ he says as he flips it, ‘ _Lady Boyle_.’

‘This should be a good night,’ says Treavor, eyeing the tableau, ‘give us the guest of honor, then.’

Timothy shuffles the stack of cards a few more times before placing it down on the table, selecting and turning the last card as he gives it the guest of honor’s place in the arrangement between them.

‘The Masked Felon,’ he says, and Corvo’s horrible mask stares out of the picture, cold-eyed and hard-edged.

‘Get started already,’ says Treavor, ‘before I fall asleep,’ and the awkwardness that had arrived with the Masked Felon evaporates. Timothy touches a hand to one of the girls, then takes it away and pairs up two of the others instead.

‘They’re courtesans,’ he says, ‘the Felon won’t have them. The Felon wants -’ they both pause in horror as the Felon, still two-dimensional upon his card, draws his gun and shoots between those containing Esma and Lydia, and a bullet strikes the image of Montgomery Shaw in the throat.

Treavor leaps back from the table as blood pours from the playing card, but Timothy remains seated. ‘Fuck me,’ he says, but it’s not quite terror in his voice; indeed, he’s worming a hand into the fly of his trousers.

‘Timothy -’ says Treavor, watching, dumb as only a dream can make one, as the Felon’s image appears in an inhale of blue light, right behind Waverly.

‘My God,’ says Timothy, still palming himself inside his trousers, as the Felon rips her in twain with his blade, and as that cut is made so too does one across Timothy’s throat, deep, dark, red as a smile.

‘Your God?’ says Treavor, his voice high and cool and not his own, ‘Who’s that?’

Treavor turns away from Timothy’s frantic gurgling, and the scene reforms around him; in the cage, Sokolov stands up to his knees in rats, easel before him. 

The curled canvas of _Morgan, Custis and The Postulate Child_ is stretched on a board, and Sokolov paints Farley and Teague’s faces over Treavor’s brothers’ in tiny brushstrokes that read _murderer_ , and Farley puts his hand on Emily’s shoulder and pulls her away from the shed, and she kicks and screams, and Treavor notices that she’s wearing his mother’s wedding gown. 

When he wakes, his pillow is wet with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, I've had a really shitty six months, including a horrific infection, subsequent loss of tooth & antibiotic-related illness. Then I lost out on my dream master's course, a dream job... and then I was just super depressed. Thank Nintendo for this chapter, as self-incentivising BoTW managed to get this finished.
> 
> Thanks again 2 my pals Emma & Derry who saw me through to the end of this one... hopefully I'll see you all soon x


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